


Devoured

by PhoenixDiamond



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post Black Panther, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, Femslash, Fighting and bickering, Gradual Burn, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Male Slash, Other, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: T'Challa assumes Erik is misunderstood and given time, he'll come around to see things from his perspective. He doesn't expect redemption. Erik's too stubborn to ever think he's wrong.Erik doesn't want to understand the world through T'Challa's eyes. He may as well be blindfolded and left to fantasize about the world being a better place. He knows the truth. T'Challa's just too stupid and stuck in his ways to handle the truth.So, their story begins where neither cousin believes their feud will ever end. Until one incident after the next changes things. . .Disclaimer: I do not own Black Panther. I'm only utilizing the characters for entertainment. No profits. Therefore, I own nada and make nada.





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Black Panther story. Welcome and thank you for giving this story a gander. I guesstimate this story to be between 15-20 moderate to long chapters. Feel free to browse through and if you find it to your liking, please leave your remarks and/or kudos. Thank you and enjoy. Please excuse any mistakes!

**Chapter 1: Awakening**

Perhaps T’Challa is foolish for being so rash in his choice to keep Erik alive. He’s questioned himself numerous times, but no answers are forthcoming.

Since his ascension to the throne, he can hardly profess to having made rational choices as king. Often times, the pressures of reassuring others when he himself is unsure leaves him feeling as fragile as a veil of snow in the savannah, incapable of lasting long under the crushing weight of responsibility.

King T’Chaka left Wakanda too early during his rule. There’s so much left for T’Challa to learn, to absorb and experience before he could say he is prepared to assume the throne. However, that time has been prematurely thrust upon him as unexpectedly as his decision to keep Erik alive against the council’s wishes.

Whether they decide to recognize his cousin’s worth or not, isn’t up to them.

That is T’Challa’s call.

Erik is still of royal blood. A drop of it easily outweighs the worth of the entire Vibranium Mountain. For that reason, among other obvious ones, it’s why T’Challa cannot trust his cousin’s care in the hands of anyone other then himself, Shuri, Okoye, and his mother. Not even Nakia can be confided in on this decision. She’ll call T’Challa stupid, reckless and beyond reasoning if he’s already gone this far to guarantee Erik’s survival.

Not that her choice in the matter means much now. She’s vanished to the winds once more to aid the world in secret; leaving T’Challa again to pine after her and wonder if there will ever be permanency in their relationship.

The seven months of total silence should be answer enough to that for him.

She isn’t ready to be chained down in holy matrimony nor ready to handle the obligations required to rule over Wakanda. Hell, T’Challa can’t say he’s much better in handling the political warfare either. He still has the councilmen and women breathing down his neck on every iodic problem to arise. 

There’s the World Leaders Conference he needs to have organized. The surrounding tribes are requesting his immediate response on orders overlooking the recovery of their depleted resources due to Erik’s short reign and W’Kabi has asked T’Challa to set aside some one-on-one time to discuss widening their borders toward the poorer villages. And lest he forget that he is due to travel to the mountains to negotiate combining portions of the Wakanda territory with the Jabari Tribe for their assistance against Killmonger. With all these listed, it doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of his other priorities he needs to address.

So, knowing he has this teetering tower of things to do, T’Challa continues his trek down the high arching corridors that’ll eventually lead him to the connecting chute to Shuri’s laboratory. 

Coming down the spiral pathway, T’Challa’s steps aren’t as hurried as they were bringing him here. Shuri’s assistants aren’t present and won’t be by her orders. The last thing they need is this situation going beyond the delicate restraints they worked so hard to place until it comes time to reintroduce him to the public.

Shuri is the sole attendee here monitoring his progress. There’s no telling when she properly slept or eaten. Whenever she becomes so engrossed in her projects, Shuri neglects her health. T’Challa has grown tired of reminding her to take care of herself. He will have better luck in preaching to a brick wall if he tries. Their mother worries constantly and the Dora Milaje don’t speak on it to avoid overstepping boundaries.

T’Challa leans against the spiral path’s cylindric support with a fond smile that feels as if it’ll crack his face and watches Shuri maundering before a wide bank of computer screens, minutely amplifying those that needed more detail work and shrinking those she finishes evaluating.

Normally, the bigger the panel, the larger the problem. At least, that’s how she explains it the rare times T’Challa asked why some screens were as big as a rhino troft. Her explanation was, this way she’s able to prearrange her projects with minimal need to exercise her brain power on memorizing which ones takes presidency over the rest. 

T’Challa straightens up and speaks, “What did mother tell you about talking to yourself?” 

Shuri bleats in shock, spinning around to gawk. “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak about down here? I have weapons everywhere!” 

“Yes, I am noticing that now.” T’Challa’s ears hone in on the low metallic whine echoing beneath his feet and cautiously steps to the side. “You should have these modified to detect friendly visitors.” 

“I . . . could work on that,” Shuri voice gradually lowers as the idea seems to spring upon her on short notice. Her hand shoots out to hover her palm over a blank portion of her hand and raises it up, assembling a digital display of the heavy artillery embedded across the entire lab. “Though it’s difficult to distinguish friend or foe these days, no?”

T’Challa immediately zeroes in on the one he heard by the end of the spiraling path and balks. “ _Kakhulu_ —is that what’s down there?” 

“ _Ewe_.” She taps the weapon display on its barrel and stretches it out, revealing a series of revolving mini pistols. “Plus, extra precautionary measures in case it misses.” 

“I don’t think you will have that problem.” 

“Only if they’re nimble enough to dodge. It takes this particular piece nine seconds to reach full capacity.” She gives him a dull look. “You heard it and managed to step out of the way it charged.” 

T’Challa lifts an eyebrow. “Not everyone is gifted with heightened senses.”

“It never hurts to be prepared.”

“So, if I were an ordinary man, then. . .” 

“I would have new interior decorating,” she answers simply. “A bit of you would be over here, and some of you up there and probably down there. Maybe over there too to paint my walls a pretty red.” 

T’Challa pinches her cheek and moves to examine a panel screen containing a list of schematics. He lays his hand over several oddly constructed devices and spreads out the specs, curling a finger under his chin in thought.

He’s stalling, of course.

As much as he loves Shuri’s company, he hasn’t come down here to enjoy it as often as he used to. Most visits were specifically to check on Erik’s progress. 

Shuri’s not stupid. She’s been aware of this trick for weeks. 

Shuri extracts a pod full of Kimoyo Beads and pours the contents on her worktable. “I miss being the only reason you come here, brother. Nowadays, I’m lucky to have a bit of your time since you became king.” 

“I’m here now,” he softly defends. “No matter if I’m king, I’ll always have time for you.” 

“Sure, you do.” The beads are carefully crafted into a magnetized sphere. Shuri cradles her palms an inch from the formation and crinkles her fingers. “But I digress for now. I’m too busy to be much company anyway. If you want to see him so badly, then go. He hasn’t awakened yet.” 

T’Challa frowns, thinking. “It’s been months. Why is his recovery taking so long?” 

“It certainly isn’t because of my equipment!”

“I wasn’t implying that!”

“Hmmph.” Shuri sucks her teeth. “It’s not that his restoration isn’t complete. It’s him,” she huffs indignantly, reshaping the beads into a swaying cubical fortress. “He recovered three months ago. The freak has cast himself into a mental equilibrium; organs, blood flow, neuron relays, all of them function just fine, but in a state of metabolic depression in endotherms. As if he’s—” 

“Comatose?” A low snarl bubbles up from T’Challa’s chest, building until it empties through clenched teeth. He leans away from Shuri’s devices and shakes his head. “ _Dama kuye_ , he’s doing this on purpose.” He says, turning his back and walks towards a vaulted compass and cuts the corner leading into the spacious chamber holding Erik’s stasis pod embedded in a hollowed recess. 

The large pod only functions for two purposes; healing and confinement, acting as a recuperating cell.

Erik resembles himself as he did on the day he removed the spear from his heart, frozen in a way the heart-shaped herb does during winter to preserve its healthy bloom. Staring at him as he is, one would never know this foreigner had died that day, bleeding profusely as if his blood were in a hurry to crave his path to their late ancestors.

Both his fists are folded across his chest, skin tone, face, muscle tone, every bit of him is the same as it’d been seven months prior. Only his hair has changed, becoming longer and matted and scruffy around the face.

T’Challa shouldn’t be surprised by Erik’s capabilities at this point, but to choses this falsified death in favor of living? 

T’Challa’s fist winds at his side. 

Why does this fool think he’s allowed this luxury when he owes so much restitution to Wakanda?

Does T’Challa expect redemption? No, he doesn’t want his cousin’s ideals to completely change. In that aspect, they now share similar perspectives. 

It’s taken hundreds of councils, worldly traveling, and having to bear witness to the oppressive manners bestowed to their distant race that has changed T’Challa’s moral beliefs. He will partake in distributing Wakanda’s knowledge with the world and any refugees who wish to become a part of their ancestral grounds, well, he’ll see about changing their customs, so the visitors can at least be brought up in Wakanda’s peaceful existence. He’s still on the fence about allowing outsiders within their boundaries.

Maintaining Wakanda’s warless purity is of the upmost importance. 

T’Challa approaches the glass, splaying his palm against the warm exterior. “I never would have taken you for a coward. Are you so damned determined to protect your fragile pride that this is what’s it comes to— to stay as you are in this humming casket?” 

His nostrils flare, inhaling through the tough Vibranium and glass combined capsule, scenting the strength, an alien musk, and something else beneath the underlayers of the permanently implanted American smells: that of a Wakandian resident. It doesn’t matter that he was raised across the seas, toiling in the oily polluted streets of Oakland. There’s no denying his blood.

It had been further confirmation for T’Challa the day W’Kabi brought Erik before him in the throne room. 

Yes, T’Challa knew who he was by sight and by scent. His inner panther practically roared in recognition. It’d taken a strong will to persuade himself to not slay the charlatan where he stood because of all he represents; the living truth of the former King T’Chaka's imperfections and how much of a threat he is to T’Challa’s stature. 

In truth, Erik could still challenge T’Challa again and again for the throne if he so chooses. Erik likely will until he’s accomplished his goal to eradicate the metaphorical slavery he believes still exists around the world. But there’s a better, way to go about this.

Perhaps, maybe, that is what T’Challa hopes for Erik to realize some day. 

It is only right here, right now, after learning of his cousin’s refusal to come out of this lifeless void, does T’Challa see that that day may never come to past. Erik would rather survive in the dark then face his failure. No such character can call themselves a true warrior or blood from the Golden Tribe.

“You’re no family of mine.” T’Challa hand drops to his side. He pivots on his heel at a speed that kicks up his robe and prepares to leave. “You come from a mighty line of kings and queens, all who have died or fought until their bones ached to protect your country. But you want nothing to do with it because you’re afraid to face your failure.” T’Challa stalls at the mouth of the chamber, bracing his hand to the wall, then looks over his shoulder. “Perhaps you are the pathetic coward everyone claims you are. I was just too blind to see it.” 

T’Challa steps forward before his entire world erupts into a paralyzed state.

A scent rises all around him, a heavy rage, fearless and stormy. His gaze quickly centers on the glass panel: the only thing sustaining the room’s stability, or it would be covered in his and the other’s blood. 

Erik Stevens stares back at him with deep brown eyes locked in steely resolve to destroy. One cough, and a strong inhale sounds off inside the capsule.

Then Erik opens his mouth, straightens his back and speaks, “Ya mama’s a coward, you stupid ass bitch,” he sneers, voice hoarse, and tries wriggling in his casing, but it becomes plainly clear his stay inside the capsule all these months has zapped him of any power. He’s weak with only his murderous gaze and words to accommodate his pride. “You should’ve let me die. Now there’s nothing to stop me from pickin’ up where I left off . . . killing you is all I got left to live for now.” 

T’Challa’s eyes take on some of that sheen of gold they have when he first swallowed the heart shape herb’s nectar. “You will try,” he rumbles. “And try and try and try until there’s nothing left of you. But I promise, in all your attempts, you will never defeat me. Not as you are.” 

Erik slumps in his case, eyes drowsy, becoming a slave to his own exhaustion. “You clearly forgot who you’re dealing with. S’cool. I’ll remedy that soon enough, _cousin_.” 

A small smirk pulls at T’Challa’s lips as he leaves. “We shall see indeed, cousin.” 

 

 

** Translations:  **

**_Kakhulu_** _=_ Seriously

 ** _Ewe_** = Yes

 ** _Dama kuye_** _=_ Damn him.

 


	2. Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of ya'll giving this story a shot. The support has been awesome. Here's chapter 2, my current favorite. Enjoy and please excuse any mistakes!

**Chapter 2: Scent**

T’Challa memorized Erik’s scent that day, committing the odor to the nether regions of his mind where it will never be forgotten.

It is frustratingly loud as the rest of him— an exultating arrogance of power he has no right to claim. Erik’s entire contentious existence is trapped in a whirlwind that is tangy with sweat and vaguely interlaced with the musk of masculinity, skimmed with that undeniable trace of the earth, drowning in the bubbling river of the heart-shaped herb’s sap that will forever course through his blood.  

Just like T’Challa.

Because of Erik’s irrational order to have the herbs burned, no remedy can be concocted to remove it, leaving them both stranded to live with the herb’s potency for the rest of their lives. Shuri nor their specialists know how the herb’s poultice will affect them in the long run. Shuri theorizes prolonged exposure will simply transcend them both through phases of heightened kinesthetic sensing. It will build the proprioceptive system processing the orientale sense to the brain and perceptions in their bodies.

Only through periodic testing will they be able to confirm whether the effects will be harmful or beneficial.

The next couple of months, being on guard has become second nature to T’Challa’s routine. He’d permitted Shuri to let Erik go when he demanded to be released from his cage. The council members were warned that he was freed and Erik is to be treated no differently from the citizens. Upon his first defense, death is the only conviction, but it is an honor that T’Challa himself wants to bestow.  

It is so ordered, and it shall be followed. No matter whether he is confident in his position as king, he remains strong on this and no one can deter him.

Their protests echoed for weeks. His mother opposed them simply because she trusts in her son’s decisions, no matter how outlandish they sound. T’Challa is grateful for her support. He wholly accepts all consequences to follow his choice, be they good or bad. And since Erik is his responsibility, Erik’s life is his to take, no one else.

There is little to fear of retaliation on the Wakanda people. Erik made it clear on the day he disappeared that he desires no one else’s blood on his hands, but T’Challa’s. That suited the king just fine. He was prepared then, and he has continued to be so during the months of silence.

The day finally arrived when Erik choose to make his strike.

T’Challa is the reigning king of Wakanda and not without consistent protection and Erik respects the security in a way he refuses to respect T’Challa’s power. The palace is froth with formidable traps and assassins who lurk and slink about in secret for the foolish who try to take the royal family’s life.

That’s why it had to be a place outside, in the open, with no kind of obstacles to interfere. And on the night T’Challa leaves the palace to roam the outskirts of Wakanda’s village borders, so close to the congested jungles, he yawns and stretches his arms high, becoming crowded by shadows, Erik makes his move.  

Erik comes down fast aiming for T’Challa’s unguarded flank, landing in the same silence he used to complete his last kill in Iraq and his dreads flying all around him. His hands were wrapped tight around the handles of two cutlass blades, flawlessly tampered with black vibranium. His senses thrummed with the presence of flesh, blood, earth—

And predatory power.

Just as Erik swings his sword back for the blow that will sever T’Challa’s spinal cord, the king performs an impossible feat and spins around with his fist clenched and connects flat into the blade’s groove and gazes directly into Erik’s eyes. The king’s eyes morph into a yellow so brilliant and savage, that Erik feels his lips pulling back from his gold tampered canines in an instinctive snarl.

In the passing seconds he’s lowering to his feet, T’Challa’s fist ricochets off the sword and slides along it’s length towards Erik’s jaw, colliding with a sickening crunch. Erik loosens his jawline in time to lessen the full impact and feels several teeth loosened and just one knocked out. He rolls away tucking his feet close to his belly and backflips at a distance. His stance is off, and he has to propel himself back five more feet to bear himself upright and have the trailing edge of his right sword extended to ward off T’Challa from advancing.

But T’Challa’s already vanished. Perhaps to the trees since there’s so many and it would be a better position to ambush from.

“Fuck,” Erik hisses. Blood is spat on the ground as he charges towards the closest truck and pops off the side and up into the dense canopy. The creak in his perch is his only giveaway and he leaves it to settle on a thicker branch and listens, waiting, anticipating.

Erik sheaths his swords in favor of scouting his surroundings. The jungle works in both their favor and disadvantage. Neither will be able to assess where the other will appear; equal fighting grounds, but with the silence periodically pierced by the wildlife’s screeches and chimes and low rumbles, he’s tense enough to stab a fly between the eyes. Multiple heavy smells permeate the air; the pungency from surrounding animals and plants.

Then an impatient growl rumbles up his throat and Erik throws his fist against the branch beneath his feet, jarring the tree in its entirety and startling a horde of birds in all directions.

“What kind of king runs away from a fight?” he calls into the darkness.

Immediately, a resounding baritone laughter fills the night. “Do not confuse my stalking for cowardice, cousin. The Black Panther never runs from prey.”

Erik barks a short laugh. “Nah, I’m the hunter here,  _cousin_ ,” he nastily bites off on the relative title, voice thick with remnants of murderous intent. “Cocky ass fuck. I can’t wait to drive my blade through your chest. It’s gonna be the best thing next ta’ carvin’ a turkey!”

“That remains to be seen—if you’re able to get close enough that is. I don’t foresee you having a successful kill this night.”

“Oh, don’t mistake me for trying, Ole Mighty King,” taunts Erik, and he roughly inhales the wind as it drifts from the east and angles his head in that direction. “I don’t expect to get lucky that fast. No way, you’re too smart for that. S’why I know you lured me out here. Probably knew I was trailing you since you left the palace.”

“Clever man.”

Erik inhales deeply. He checks overhead, to his far left and below. Eight of them. Then he chuckles crudely.  “I’m only gonna say this once; if any of your harem of hoes get involved, I’m not gonna be held responsible providing a cleaner cut.”

“My Dora Milaje are at my beck and call at any given time. Though they are present, none of them will interfere regardless of the outcome of our bout. To disobey will be a direct challenge to my regnancy.”

Erik flicks his gaze sideways. Without warning, every single one of them vanish, taking their scents, and disconcerting tangles of worry, anxiety and rage with them.

“And you came out here without the suit,” Erik eventually resumes, jeering. “Real presumptuous of you. You either got a death wish or you’re severely underestimating my skills.”

“Neither, actually. I’m reconsidering my opinion on your intellectuality though.” The king’s voice penetrates the air like a struck gong. “If you recognized my tact, why pursue me anyway?”

Erik shrugs knowing T’Challa sees him. “For the practice. I could’ve taken you out while you were in the village.”

“I would have killed you for it.”

“Why? Because of the collateral damage?” Erik shifts to swing his legs around and sits on the branch, shoulders slumping forward. He closes his eyes and lets his mind sway with the course of the jungle’s rhythm. “You act like you don’t have two billion other subjects around the world needing that same kind of dedication.”

“My loyalty is owed only to my country. Just like yours is to our distant tribes of the world.”

“You will never know what it feels like to be judged because you happen to be darker then your counterparts,” says Erik. “Tell me if you’ve ever walked into a store and been followed, or watch women clutch their purses when they see you walking towards them. All because we’re portrayed to be thugs, thieves, and rouges.”

Silence comes after that statement for so long, Erik almost assumed the king had indeed left, until his voice tightly echoes forth, nearly crystal clear. “Times have changed as have my ideologies on global oppression. I was blind before about our people’s plight and I am attempting to help change—”

“ _Thula_ _!_ ” snaps Erik, teeth grinding, “that slow burn shit ain’t gonna amount to a hill of ants. They’ve had hundreds of years’ worth of waiting to suffer through. Enough is enough!”

“Diplomacy is the only means to an end. I already told you I will not have our people rage war on the world simply because of one man’s demand for faster results through violence.”

“Yeah, will, by the time you’re all done being diplomatic, every moment you wait there’s about a thousand colored kids who’ll be incarcerated just for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. All because they can’t help being born into what they are.”

“Not all of them are innocent. If they would not place themselves in those kinds of environment—”

“It’s easy to say you got the answers when you don’t think you’re part of the problem.”

“They have options—”

“Point them out then. You gonna make yourself one of those choices?”

“Things will change in time, Erik.”

“You’re damn right they will.”  The wind sweeps past. The smell of T’Challa comes fast and heavy. Erik centers his concentration towards that portion of the jungle and acts.

He catapults into the open, unsheathing his cutlasses and twists. The momentum brings him corkscrewing in midair towards a clutter of tree limbs and slices through them until all that remains is an empty space of where his enemy had just escaped.

But not too long ago. Erik pushes off and drops like a striking hawk, straight down.

T’Challa’s guard diminishes with his surprise at his route being discovered so quickly.

Erik accepts the shock of T’Challa’s foot swinging around to slam into his shoulder, the pain making his bicep shudder. In exchange for that, Erik hurls his thigh up and brings his knee against T’Challa’s chin, relishing in the hoarse choke and gurgle of blood bursting from the king’s mouth.

A fiery thrill surges through Erik at the sight. He can break through T’Challa’s guard at this close range, aim for his solar plexus to stun him and let his blades do the rest.

Erik victoriously sounds off, rolling his elbow towards that bit of T’Challa, ready and eager to put an end to this.

But he overestimates his timing.

And it becomes his undoing, that singular instant where he feels utter satisfaction of spilling his enemy’s blood, because no one can react as quickly to T’Challa’s attack like Erik, but T’Challa’s proving he’s nimbler. His leaner figure realigns to catch Erik’s elbow in the bed of his thigh, stabbing solid muscle and it does nothing.

Then Erik’s entire body vibrates from this advent source of dominance and approaching defeat.

The look in T’Challa’s eyes seem to glow in between changing out of the shadows and the moon’s haunting light, as if he expected this outcome.  

And Erik wishes with all his heart that T’Challa can feel the magnitude of Erik’s hatred for him while he wrings his thick arm around Erik’s carotid artery, cuffs both legs around Erik’s arms and brings them down hard on the ground.

A fucking flawless blood choke.

Erik isn’t stupid enough to think he can break out of this and he feels so damn schooled for allowing himself to be caught in this pitiful ass hold. He struggles nonetheless, out of anger at himself and the unrelenting rage towards T’Challa. All the bastard would need to do is flex his arm and within seconds, Erik’s done for.

Erik glares at the shadowy outline of the jungle, seeing the gleam and sparkle of the Wakanda Village and feels every inch of T’Challa’s body constricting him like a possessive python. Erik slows the pointless thrashing, sensing the inevitable defeat and goes limp. It’ll be a waste of energy to do otherwise.

“There are many ways I could end this, cousin,” says T’Challa, lips a balmy tauny above his cousin’s ear. “Snap your neck, maybe squeeze until you breathe your last, or shall I give into my primal side and sink my fangs into your throat until my belly fills with your blood . . .”

“Fuck you,” Erik whispers, eyes shutting tight. “I ain’t worried ‘bout none of that shit coming to fruition. You’d have killed me already if it were that easy.”

“It is very easy,” says T’Challa. He flexes his arm and a round of suffocating dizziness hits Erik in quick sessions. “I can do it, I  _should_  do it. This will not be the last time you try to kill me.”

“Nope,” Erik coughs and sucks in hard, pulling in thin threads of air. “You let me go, on everything, I’m comin’ back for your head.”

T’Challa’s insufferable laugh leaves a humid film on the shell of Erik’s ear. “I will heed your warning, though it is unlikely I have any reason to fear.” He gives one sharp squeeze, then completely relieves his hold on Erik and leaps away from him.

Erik rolls on his stomach, beating his fist into his chest to stimulate airflow. Even though the king’s distance himself, T’Challa’s scent cloaks all over Erik, and he catches traces of pity, curiosity and arrogance. He understands all of that with one sniff and is vaguely concerned about why he can detect it, but it’s overshadowed by how efficiently he got his ass whooped.

Then he howls and becomes supercharged with so much pent up anger he bangs his head into the ground and claws viciously at the earth until a sizable indent’s left behind.

God help him, he can’t stand this feeling. To suffer defeat not once, but twice by this fool’s hands? Erik shakes his head and climbs to his feet.

 _Fuck everything,_ his mind screams. This shit’s going beyond the scope of wanting to liberate his race. It’s become personal.

He whips around on his heel, taking a fighter’s stance and brings his swords up. “This shit ain’t over. . .”

  

T’Challa observes him, studying the artful thrust and fluency of the twin blades in motion and yet he pictures it being done by a child who slings around a toy. And that’s what Erik is in truth. A child. Still young, if the wild glint in his eyes are any indication. It’s almost amusing how he tries to disguise the warmth beneath that condemningly cold-eyed glare, but T’Challa has seen it there once.

The way Erik stared over Wakanda, there lies a deep fondness for the country that abandoned him. It means something to him, holds some kind of significance; through his father or some othe rhidden meaning, T’Challa doubts he will ever know, but what he does know is that there is more to Erik ‘ _N'Jadaka’_ Stevens he wants to learn. At the very least, T’Challa wants to see what he hides before doing away with him.

Perhaps, then he can have some peace of mind for himself.

The audible slap of metal against metal sings, the lethal moonshine upon them a welcome sight. Because it means a challenge and T’Challa’s realizing he’s become exhilarated from this session. It leaves him questioning his sanity. To be here, fighting on parallel bearings, with someone of the same blood, with as much ferocious skill and intelligence. . .       

T’Challa is grudgingly aware of his mind going south and shakes his head and pays attention to Erik’s beckoning physique, crouching low and at the ready.

T’Challa’s eyes show a change now since their fight began. Where they had been coolly bemused, they were not narrowed into disdainful slits. He was over this ordeal. This fight is empty. He will have nothing to accomplish by killing Erik. Erik may not realize it but taking T’Challa’s life won’t solve his problems either since that seems to be his only goal now.

“Come on!” Erik grounds out. Then he suddenly scoffs, blinking. “W-what the fuck are you doing?”

T’Challa’s expression doesn’t change as he erects himself to a perfect posture and turns around.

And starts walking away.

From their fight.

Because there’s nothing left for him to gain. Nothing he will learn. Not this time. . .

He’s walking away.

From their fight.

With his back open and bare to Erik, it’s the ultimate insult.

Erik sees red. “Don’t you fuckin’ walk away from me. Hey! Is that what the King of Wakanda does when he’s too scared to face his opponents?”

He thought there would be some kind of response to that accusation, but there is nothing except T’Challa’s quiet footsteps taking him away from where Erik stands. Stunned speechless, Erik stares through disheveled locs of dark brown at his cousin’s retreating back, both blades dropping with noisy thuds in the grass. He nearly yells out again, just to make sure T’Challa isn’t fucking with his head, but a strong throb of something like cold rejection stops him and leaves him blinking dumbly after his older cousin.

So, that’s how it is. He isn’t a threat. That’s why T’Challa’s so content to treat him as such.

“That motherfuckin’. . .pussy.” All the aches and bruises from their bout gradually surface through his adrenaline pumping walls and it comes as no surprise how exhausted he truly is. Kneeling slightly to pick up his blades, he sheaths them in his holsters and sighs to the skies.

So much for his first attempt.

Erik limps his way through the jungle at a slower pace, annoyed beyond recognition and already contemplating how his next strike against the king would go.

Because one thing is abundantly clear.

No way in fucking Hell he is going to let this shit slide.

Not only was his mission compromised, but now his pride’s been trampled on and the king just leaves?

“Nah,” he chuckles bitterly, cradling his jaw and straightens it into place. “This shit is far from over.”

It won’t be over until one of them has worms digging through their corpse.

There’s no other way for them to survive so long as the other’s alive.

And Erik’s just fine with maintaining that mindset until he’s the last one standing.

 

Translation: 

**Thula=**  Shut up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter!


	3. Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone giving this story a chance. You're all great. Here's Chapter 3. Enjoy and please excuse any mistakes.

**Chapter 3: Chance**

Waking up inside of a roofless shelter creates a kind of unpleasant, slightly disconcerting feeling that makes a person look back on their life and how it came to this.

Erik found that cursing all kinds of bad juju on T’Challa’s life is the only kind of reprieve he can get in between assassination attempts. When in doubt about where you’re going in life, it never hurts to blame someone else for your shortcomings.

Three and a half months’ worth of effort totaling eight attacks, and all he succeeded in is earning himself some cracked ribs, a fucked-up ankle, and all kinds of shit getting tangled in his dreads. Not that T’Challa doesn’t come out of their fights unscathed. Erik can gloat about breaking his cousin’s arm in three places, delivering some punches to his ribcage, and leaving bruises behind that makes his whole body resemble a massive ink blot.

But T’Challa came out victorious from their last scuffle, as Erik’s painstakingly realizing at the current time while cradling the bulbous lump protruding from his hip.

His pelvic bone cracked from a kick. Erik’s been holed up in his shelter for two days waiting for it to mend on its own. Something interesting he’s learned is that his body has developed the ability to heal itself of the most severe wounds. He also found that T’Challa’s body goes through the same process. After going after him two weeks before when he’d broken his cousin’s arm, Erik threw blows with that same arm as if it’d hadn’t been ruined by his own hand.

Come to think of it, his broken jaw was almost fixed the following day and his missing tooth returned within hours. The same results followed with any other injuries he gains.

It doesn’t take Erik long to deduce the reason being because of the heart-shape herbs medicinal properties. He knew the basics of it being able to provide heightened physical abilities and senses. He just hadn’t factored it having restorative traits as well. The process is still painful. During the periods he rests from his injuries, he can feel every stream of blood filling his veins and the crackle of his bones molding and snapping into each joint.

And as he enters the last bit of his body’s healing, Erik decides to get a move on with tending to the few responsibilities he’s gained in the brief time he began living in the jungle. Such as gathering supplies and hunting and one job he’s taken to doing once a week.

Which takes him strolling toward his destination this afternoon.

Not all Wakandians reside inside the main city. Some of the older generations live adjacent to the outskirts, away from the hustle and bustle.

One such hut stands a half a mile from the jungle. It belongs to an old woman folks call _‘_ _Umfazi Omdala onzima’_ or Bitter Old Woman. Her name’s M’Bali and there’s an amusing story to how they came to be acquainted.

A week after Erik’s second attempt on T’Challa’s life, he’d grown tired of surviving in the elements and started roaming the place for somewhere to live; whether that entails killing someone else to take their own or finding an abandoned hut. It just so happened that upon the morning he stumbled upon M’Bali and her granddaughter Thandiwe’s house, they’d been outside the hut weaving baskets and making dye.

Oh, he had every intention of murdering them for what he needed and anyone who had a problem with it could get the same treatment. She was as homely looking as they come, wearing a flora sundress, with a bunch of wicked baskets around her feet and a walking laying across her lap and an enormous black pouch full of mangos. The little girl couldn’t have been more then four or five and she wasn’t paying any attention since drinking juice seemed the most important thing in her universe.  

_He doesn’t bother hiding and walks straight up to them, weapons drawn, looking every bit as threatening as possible wearing nothing but his cargo pants. She looked him up and down when he stands over her, rubbery face pinched in a scowl._

_“What ails you, boy?” she asks in broken English. “If it’s money you be wanting, I got’s none to give.”_

_Erik tilts his chin up, “Don’t need it. Your house will do.”_

_“Me house?” She looked over her shoulder, frowning. “What you be wanting with that ole beat up thing?”_

_“None of your goddamn business. You gonna fight me for it?”_

_The old woman huffs, amused, then pats at the tight braids bundled in a bun on her head “Well, I ain’t lookin’ to live past eighty summers anyway, boy. You do what you must. My granddaughter will leave on her own. She tends to walk off without my permission anyway.”_

_Said little girl looks at him with large brown eyes, still sucking profusely at her juice._

_Erik is momentarily caught off guard by this woman’s tenacity. “You smokin’ dope?”_

_“I be what now?”_

_Erik irritably scoffs, sheathing his blades. There’s a saying about it being unjust to mess with the crazies. That’s the kind of karma he would rather not have bite him in the ass later._

_“So, you gonna move out or nah?” he asks, folding his arms._

_The woman taps her chin. “What does **nah** mean?” _

_“No.”_

_She smiles. “There you go.”_

_Erik stares at her like she’s lost her ever-loving mind. “Bitch, does it look like I’m playin’ with you?”_

_“Not too big on playing games, boy.” She goes back to stringing a strip through her basket and points to the patch of grass next to her. “Why not sit there and tell ole M’Bali why a warrior like you is trying to rob an old lady and me child, hmm?”_

_Erik hesitated because it’s the first time he’s come across anyone who didn’t cower at the sight of his weapons. They normally drop to the ground, begging for their life or run away. She didn’t look fazed and the honest fearlessness in her sort of hypnotizes him into obeying._

_Right as he squats next to her, M’Bali promptly slaps him across the back of the head with the heaviest hand known to mankind. She proceeds to fuss in between languages about him being rude and discourtesy and scolds him about wandering around on his own. The whole while, Erik only looks at her with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, struggling between his fascination and his hand inching towards his blades._

_It didn’t help an inch when pudgy little Thandiwe beans him over the forehead with her juice cup and simply gets up to go get another one._

_The urge to kill lingers, but he never does. She continues fussing and persuades him to help with the chores inside and outside her home to earn his keep. A crippled, eighty-year-old woman has no business being that damn feisty._

_It hadn’t stopped there._

_M’Bali insisted he stick around for a proper meal. Then he fixes up some of the damaged equipment in her kitchen, has a shower, and rests. He slept for two whole days and left afterwards._

_That should have been the end of it. But as fate would have it, while he’d been setting bait to catch fish, he comes across Thandiwe walking her happy romp in the woods like she hasn’t a care in the world. He drops out of the trees and that didn’t scare her like he’d hoped. She’d looked him up and down like he had no rights to interrupt her journey. Then she breezes by him without saying shit._

_Erik snatched her by the hand and walked the dumb child home with his catch. He shared the meat with them. . . and since then, coming around has become routine._

Erik doesn’t bother asking what needs to be done anymore. Sometimes M’Bali will leave the evidence out for him to see. And it’s chopping wood today. No telling how she managed to haul all this wood here, but he sets to chopping them into sizable chunks.

He’d been at this all day and well into the evening. She’ll have enough firewood to last her the next couple of weeks. Being in the peak of the summer, the balmy air and surrounding humidity will have rotted half of it before she has the chance to use it. But he doesn’t mind the extra labor.

It gives him something to do with his time instead of sitting in the jungle, lost in his thoughts.

Lost in his fucked-up memories and ambitions.

He is hacking into the last tree like it’s T’Challa’s face when he hears slow shuffling and the distinct scent of oldness and dried meats. He buries the axe into the trunk and pushes his dreads from his face, panting softly.

“The fuck you want, old lady?” he snaps as she approaches with a bemused smirk and a basket of something smelling mouthwatering. Just looking at her blusters his anger. Maybe it’s because of her deceptively mild demeanor or her easygoing stride. Or there’s something about how she reminds him of the old folks from his mama’s side of the family that knew how to read you and didn’t let your misbehaving ways disturb them.

M’Bali stops short of him, eyeballing the two mounds of neatly chopped wood. She shakes her head.

“What?” he noisily sighs. “This ain’t enough?”

“It is plenty,” she says, “But I worry for the animals that have nowhere else to live now that you’ve given me their homes.”

“You ungrateful ass,” he sneers, loosens the axe from it’s hold and tosses it away. “You’re gonna freeze your butt off before I lop another stick for you.” Bending down, he snatches up a wooly cloth and wipes his face. “I’m gonna go shower. Don’t come in there trying to peek either.”

M’Bali cocks her eyebrow at him. “I can promise that in all my years, you have nothing to impress me with.” She holds out the basket and drops it at his feet, then turns to leave. “Eat or let it soak in the mud. I do not care which.”

“You’re not all that good a cook away,” he flippantly calls out.

She waves up one hand. “Thank you for your help, boy.”

“You ain’t welcome!”  The shower can wait. His stomach’s running on empty and whatever she has cooked in here has his belly caving in.

He pulls off the sheet, seeing barbecued chops and chicken and maize porridge, a small bowl of egusi soup and a couple of mangoes. A canteen of water is set in the corner of all the goods and he doesn’t waste time digging into his meal. Large scoops fill his cheeks and he’s set back in his old Navy days when the drill instructors would loudly order they hurry up; eat it now and taste it later.

Old habits die hard, and he’s polished off most of it when he hears M’Bali coming back towards him with her walking stick in hand and a worried crinkle in her brow. He swallows back his bite and comes to his feet.

“What’s up?”

M’Bali folds her bottom lip between her teeth, then looks up at him, “Thandiwe is missing again,” she says and walks around him.

Erik frowns after her. “Where are you goin’?”

“To find her.”

Erik rolls his eyes heavenward. “Sit yo’ old ass down somewhere before you crack a hip.” He hurries ahead to gently pull her back by the shoulder. “I’ll go get her. She’s probably playing in the bushes again.”

He swears that stupid child has suicidal tendencies.

M’Bali looks him over, staring long and hard, then relents. “Bring her back to me and be careful.”

“Whatever,” he grumps, flicking his wrist at her worrying. It’s not like there’s a damn thing in the woods he can’t kill bare handed anyway. With a pivot and two finger salutes, he starts for the same place he found Thandiwe before when she last disappeared. He’s never worried for her because he knows exactly where she goes.

“Boy!”

Erik stops at the edge of the jungle. “What?” he shouts back.

“Do you not need your swords?”

He waves a dismissively gesture. “Nah, I’m always packing.” Like Hell he’ll wander anywhere on this continent without some means of protection. There’s a dozen shanks in stitched compartments of his beltline and inside his pockets.  If the Wakandians didn’t take his head first, some beast of the jungle will try their claws at hunting him.

Despite M’Bali’s worries, Thandiwe never strays too deep into the jungle. She sticks around the outer perimeter where a clearing flushes out to a field of Cape Daisies and Treasure Flowers she cherishes so much.

Erik can’t comprehend why he’s putting himself through this. It’s isn’t as if the child means shit to him nor her fussy grandmama. Something must be in the air or water that’s made him take leave of his senses.

Or some shit.

He’ll consider the broken family a minor resource, a secondary base for himself if he ever needs another getaway. It makes sense if he thinks about it through a vantage view. T’Challa won’t think twice of looking for him this far from the main city and probably wouldn’t bother anyway since Erik’s absence means no one will get hurt.

None of them are on his hit list. He’ll work on knocking over his stack of wanted cards in the highest order and work his way down to the last one. T’Challa is the Big Joker in his list and him being skewered alive is of the upmost importance. Let Erik see the light leave his eyes, the last of his breath wheeze in his face and the pulse from his heart die on the end of Erik’s blade.

Erik grins to himself as he ducks and weaves through the vegetation, listening and sniffing the air. Somehow picturing the image of T’Challa’s broken body brightened his spirits. He still owes the son of a bitch a few licks back at the very least for their last bout. Busting his damn hip bone and leaving him to pant and call out after him like an injured puppy.

He sniffs once, starting when his foot hovers a foot from stepping on the dark rounded head of a snake. It raises up, flicking its tongue and hisses. Erik spits on it’s face before hooking his foot under its belly and slings it out of his path and continues his trip, ducking beneath a low hanging tree. The path he finds opens to the clearing he’d been aiming for and sure enough, the object of his search is nestled amongst the knee-high blooms without a care in the world.

Erik takes his thumb and index finger to his lips and releases a shrill whistle. Thandiwe visually jolts and falls on her side, momentarily disappearing in the field. Her head pops up, covered in grass and dirt.

“Thandiwe!”

“What?!”

“Don’t ‘ _what_ ’ me!” He marches over and snatches her up by the arm. “How many times ya grandmama gotta tell you to stay close to the house, huh? Why you gotta be so damn hardheaded?”

Thandiwe puffs out her cheeks and snatches her arm free, folding the bunch of flowers she picked to her chest. “Leave me alone. You not my _baba_!” She sticks out her tongue and roughly kicks his shin.

“You bad ass lil’—” Erik stops short of calling her an unstable creature and yanks her by the hand. “Take your bad behind back home!” He swings her forward and sends her off with a sharp smack to the butt. She cries and screams, sprinting at top speed. “If I get back and yo’ ass ain’t there, on everything I’m gonna beat your butt raw!”

The little girl sniffles, turning quick to huff, _“_ I’m telling on you!” and immediately runs off.

He snorts. Like he gives a damn about her telling anyone she got her romp slapped. That’s her problem. She gets her damn way too much.

Now, call it a bizarre paranoia, but the hackles on the back of his neck tend to rise whenever he feels cornered and as he retakes the path that lead him here, he feels every hair on his body stand. When he reaches tighter quarters in the jungle, he sprawls full-length on his stomach, breathing light. His right hand goes for the hidden shank knives tucked in his belt band. The twinge in his hip protests angrily at the odd angle, throbbing dully.

A moment is all he’ll need to make his move. He could choose to wait, but he’s never been known for his patience. It’s his least favorite practice and so he waits for the wind to guide him.

When he captures the scent, Erik rolls his entire body forward and pounces.

Right in T’Challa’s path.

They engage in a short scuffle where T’Challa disarms Erik and Erik aims a calculative punch to T’Challa’s shoulder and kidney, which earns him a kick in the crotch and one in his chest. The pair pull back, winded. Erik steadies his breathing and fully erects himself tall, ignoring the thrumming aches blossoming in his body.

“And here I thought I’d take a week off before coming after you again, but you can’t even grant me that,” he darkly glowers. He watches T’Challa’s expression shift from curious to surprise as if just realizing who he’d fought with. “The fuck you doin’ out here? If you say you happened upon me by chance, I swear to _your God_ , I’m gonna make you squat on my blade and spin.”

T’Challa wrinkles his nose. “It may be difficult to believe, but I wasn’t expecting to find you out here. I normally come this way when I visit W’Kabi. What is your excuse?”

“None of your business.”

T’Challa scowls. Erik returns the expression.

“Very well.” T’Challa pats away the wrinkles and dust accumulated on his long, sleeveless emerald and gold tunic. His khaki linen pants can’t be salvage no matter how much he tries.

Speaking of which, “That’s getup’s not all that incognito, _your highness_.”

“I wasn’t under the impression I need to wear a disguise whenever I roam my own kingdom. Have a good day, cousin.” Just like last time, he gives his back to Erik without a moment’s hesitation and goes on his merry way. In the opposite direction of where Erik would be going.

He’s so nonchalant about letting his guard down, Erik can’t help feeling mocked. No way T’Challa was simply strolling by as he claims. His nose is as keen as Erik’s. He’ll never understand why his ignorant cousin loves to mistake his Americanism for a testament of his intellect.

Erik tucks away his knife all the same because it’s not like he will need it. T’Challa isn’t a threat either and he’s vexed to know that he’s learning his cousin’s habits out of necessity rather than primordial instinct. He remembers with a convulsive shake their encounters always ending with T’Challa departing with a smugness that rivals a prideful predator after a filled belly. Erik’s the only one who leaves feeling converted into a hardened failure then the last time.

It doesn’t feel all that much like he’s accomplished a feat of lofty expectations this go. It wasn’t a real try at T’Challa’s life anyway. Perhaps he can rest easier bearing that in mind.

But he speaks too soon.

Erik hears a strangled, high pitched squeal.

His heart and stomach clog his throat as he takes off towards the sound.

“Damn!” he yelps and leaps into action, tearing through the jungle towards the sour smell of fear and tears. Cold eyes scanning the surroundings for the threat, he comes upon Thandiwe curled between some roots of a large tree, hands covering her head. The collection of flowers she picked were scattered all over the ground. He relaxes after seeing nothing around and trots to her. “Girl, what the Hell is wrong with you? You scared me!”

She quivers, sniffling. “I-I dropped one,” she whimpers and gestures towards a mound of her flowers. “One moved and wiggled. It shined in the sun like iron and I got scared.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Man, pick up this mess and let’s go.” He bends over to help her up and shoves her over the largest mess of flowers.

T’Challa’s scent spoiled the air like acid rain. Erik knows his eyes will tumble out of his sockets at this rate. “Now I know you’re stalking me,” he grounds out as T’Challa appears from around the bend. “Don’t you have some kingly duties to attend to? Ribbons to cut? Babies’ fat faces to kiss?”

“I heard this child and came to investigate,” says T’Challa, eyes suddenly narrowing, “in case you were engaging in something unsightly.”

Erik bristles from toe to hair root. “I oughta kill you for suggesting some shit like that.” As if the king needs to add more reasons to why he’s on Erik’s hit list.

“ _What are_ you doing out here with a child?”

“ _Why aren’t_ you on the throne ruining the country?” Erik shoots back. He would have said more things to destroy T’Challa’s self-esteem and that would have no doubt ended in the two of them breaking a limb or two, but Thandiwe chooses that precise moment to prance over to them with glee upon recognizing the king. She’s holding something in her hands that makes the king and assassin mutually tense in recognition of the danger.

Thandiwe proudly presents the motionless snake Erik had kicked aside early and smiles at them. “See? This is it, Erik. Look my king. It looks like my flower’s stem!”

“Put that down!” Erik yells, grabbing the snake off her before it can regain its bearings. “Have you lost your mind? This is a damn snake—shit!” The dark colored viper wildly squirms in his tight gripe, thrashing its head and twists to sink its fangs deep into his forearm. The sting of something fiery flooding his blood can only be what he dreads and his vision’s already swimming out of focus.

Venom from a black mamba. This piece of shit snake is poisonous. He couldn’t have fucked himself over any harder if he’d tried.

Erik slams the creature on the ground and jams his heel into it’s head until the squish and platter of its blood and innards cover his boot. But it doesn’t do much to fix the buckling in his knees or how the world gradually nettles into a mesh of string bean soup.

Thandiwe shrieks, eyes wide and fearful. “Erik!” She slams into his legs, shaking him. “Erik, Erik, you OK?”

“S-stop all’la dat screamin’. . .” he slurs and tries uselessly to halt his fall to the ground, barely managing to push Thandiwe out of the way before he lands on top of her. He blinks away the swirls of as they seem to sway like water. His entire arm’s burning something fierce. He’d thought something like this wouldn’t have any affect him. So why does he feel so close to laying down for that ole dirt nap?

“My King, he is—”

“Fine, child,” says T’Challa quietly, lowering his arm to wrap under Erik’s upper torso.

“He’s going to die,” she pitifully cries, patting Erik’s wrist.

“No, he won’t. Not without my permission.” T’Challa gives a slight grunt as he presses into the ground and stands with Erik tossed over his shoulder. “We must be quick. Can you take me to _lakho ikhaya?”_

_“Ewe!”_

The last thing Erik notes before pain engulfs him, is the long emerald and gold trimmings of T’Challa’s train trailing behind him and Thandiwe tightly holding onto his hand like he’s her lifeline.

“It would seem, you will be indebted to me for a second time, cousin.” T’Challa chuckles humorlessly. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling merciful enough to save your life.”

Then Erik’s world becomes nothing but pitch agony and inward loathing.

 

Translations:    


**_lakho ikhaya_** = your home

 ** _Baba=_** Father, Daddy

 ** _Ewe_** = Yes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter


	4. Succumbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading or has begun to read this story. You are all the greatest motivation a person could ask for. Here's the next chapter. Please enjoy and excuse any mistakes.

**Chapter 4: Succumbing**

Shuri serenely ignores the chiming thrills coming from her Kimoyo Beads and moves slightly to the left to consult the recipe again. Devil’s Claw is a botanical wealth of medicinal usage in all of Africa. Correctly extracting the idiosyncrasy curatives from its roots takes painstaking precision and she will not sacrifice over ten hours of study and examination for the sake of answering a social call.

Their ancestors of old used to brew this particular remedy for a wide range of ailments, managing to strip it to it’s barest and cure everything.

And here she is using the most advance technological in the world and can’t figure out how best to utilize its qualities the same as them. This increases her respect for the elders in the Jabari Village simply because they don’t have to reference anything to recall what’s already embedded in their heads from centuries of teachings and practice.

Something in the way M’Baku depreciated her during the Challenge against her brother, well, diminish a bit of her confidence, she’s annoyed to realize.

So what if Wakanda is heavily dependent on her scientific engineering. It doesn’t make their warriors or tribespeople any less of an African. If the big oaf had some sense smacked into that sloping forehead, he might come to view their kingdom’s advancements like a beneficial step towards bettering their realm, not completely robbing them of tradition.

Another ping sharply from behind intrudes on her thinking process. Shuri recognizes the ting specifically tuned to alerting her when T’Challa’s calling. Well, she doesn’t feel up to answering. Since he has so little time to spare speaking in person these days, he’ll have to learn that she’s just as occupied with guaranteeing their kingdom’s mining vibranium deposit and extractions remains perfunctory.

That and she really wants to figure out how such primitive methods were able to heal whole villages at a time. So, she focuses on grinding the Devil’s Claw with her pestle and mortar, and sprinkles in shreds of mint—

The alert on her beads give a loud shrill before they automatically soar from the table against the wall. Shuri sighs, holding up her right hand in time for the beads to noisily assemble around her wrist. T’Challa’s face forms out of the whirl of pale lights and digital splatter. He doesn’t look pleased, but she also inherited their mother’s disapproving scowl and returns it with as much vigor.

“What do you want?” she snippily asks. “I have a lot of work to do—”

T’Challa’s eyebrows pinch together. “I wouldn’t disturb you unless it was urgent, Shuri.”

“I doubt there’s anything so important.” Shuri winces despite trying to hold onto her anger, but T’Challa has a face impossible to stay mad at long. She caves, but just a little. “What can I do you for?”

“Erik’s been bitten by a black mamba. He’s,” T’Challa pauses, looking over his shoulder at something Shuri can’t make out, “fallen unconscious. I had not suspected the venom from a simple snake could reduce him to this state, but he’s become lethargic.”

Shuri’s jaw tightens. “He has the heart shape herb’s nectar, does he not? Surely, it’ll have already neutralized the poison.”

“It’s been thirty minutes since he was bit.”

“So? It may take longer. Besides, he has another nine hours and thirty minutes to be sure. The average man dies within seven to fifteen hours.”

T’Challa stares at her, eyes narrowing. “How can we be sure he doesn’t die from this?”

“I don’t know, but in case he isn’t due for this world long, I recommend he make peace with somebody’s God before joining the ancestors in the afterlife.”

“Shuri!” he snaps. “We can’t risk that!”

“ _We_ don’t have to risk anything!” she hotly counters, surging fast to her feet, pacing. “I owe the man nothing. Nothing! With all that he’s put us through, I should have allowed him to die, but it was only because of you I let him live. Erik is not my responsibility, T’Challa!”

“He is our family!”

“He killed Zuri!” she screams, trembling with furious tears starting to life in her eyes. “He killed him in cold blood. And worse yet, M’yra. _My M’yra_. He speared her through the heart. Or are you so warped in your obligations with taking care of this broken lout that you negate all that he’s done?”

She looks disgusted with herself seconds later and cranes her face away to compose herself. Shuri angrily wipes her palm against her eyes and centers her gaze back on her brother. He has a heaviness weighing on his face that has no business being there. As if the world’s become this overwhelming chain noosed around his neck.

He closes his eyes, bowing his chin into his chest. “I can never expect you to forgive him. You have suffered from his crimes more than anyone. It’s wrong of me to ask more of you when you’ve already gone beyond what you feel is morally right. . .”

Shuri chuckles bitterly. “Yet, you still want me to overlook it all and save him?” She leans on her exam table, bracing her hip against the ledge and raises a hand to massage the stiffness in her neck. “I won’t do it, T’Challa. Ask again and I will never forgive you.”

T’Challa lifts his eyes, a soft rebellious, eerie glow to them. “I understand. . . Forgive me for pressuring you. It isn’t fair of me to place so much on your shoulders.”

Shuri gives pause, eyes shifty. Her chest constricts, she swallows, and then blows out a harsh sound. “I . . .” she casts a long gaze at the array of monitors arranged on her desk and sighs again, lips pressed tight. “I won’t directly save him, but I’ll show you how.”

“Don’t force yourself—”

“ _Thula_ ,” she grumbles. “Leave me to this while I feel merciful enough to give a damn.” A score of pads and Kimoyo Beads come sailing to her with a flick of the wrist. They hover before her, one hand lightly tapping against the transparent screens until an assortment of medical schematics. “Follow my instructions to the letter, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, first, I’ll need a blood sample, preferably from the bite site on his body. . .”

So, then. This is how it’ll come to be?

T’Challa isn’t sure he can accept this.

Poisoned.

To likely die by something so hilariously rustic, it comes off as a cheap punishment from the Gods.

It is as though a grid of fire scorches beneath his skin, contaminated, sick and burning. Erik’s eyes roll under his eyelids heatedly, flesh sleek with sweat, greasy to the touch. Flashes of black appear in between his gaze fazing in and out of consciousness, but he isn’t able to gain a grasp on reality, too wrapped in a feverish delirium.

For several days and endless nights, his body spasms, shivering, hands grappling airlessly for blessed relief. He can’t hold down food, and water hardly counts as a substitute. It’s difficult to make someone limp and senseless swallow medicines or sustenance, especially during the rare occasions Erik is semi-coherent and sees who’s helping and bats away the large hands clutching at his jaw. Eventually, it becomes too much for his body to handle and he deteriorates before their eyes, thinning from sickness, and a lack of anything to use as fuel. The only surviving portion of his body is the snake’s bite mark swelling his arm a dark purple. 

With all the technology at their disposal, there isn’t a thing that can be done to ease Erik’s suffering. Shuri said so herself and T’Challa would never doubt her advice, even while she openly expresses her hatred for Erik.

According to what she could determine from the blood sample reports sent to her via Kimoyo Beads, attempting to siphon the poison from Erik’s system could send his body into a state of shock. Trying to give him antivenom would corrupt his immune system’s strenuous task of purging his body of the foreign pathogen and that is due to the Heart Shaped Herb’s influence. Fortunately for Erik, his natural immunities were already top of the line, impeccable compared to the average human, but the herb provides extra incentives.

Both good and bad.

While it’s beneficial to have a body that combats many of his external and internal injuries, for some reason, the neurotoxins and cardiotoxins comprising the mamba venom has suspiciously slowed Erik’s phagocytic cell production by sixty-seven percent, subjecting him to infection and fever. The protein cells that would normally counter this defect will not respond unless chemical remarks unleash the correct number of signals. All because of his body’s absorption of the herb.

Nothing can be done except to allow the venom to run its course. Whether Erik lives or dies will depend on his will to survive. And no amount of interfering will change the outcome. His thievery and sin haunt him and it’s a karma long overdue.

That doesn’t alleviate T’Challa’s worry for Erik’s recovery. Perhaps he should have left his cousin to his own devices that day if fate is going to simply bring him near the brink of death anyway.

He never stays long, only arriving to check on Erik’s condition and leaving with the same grim acceptance. Constantly gracing the small family’s home, has caused a stir from the neighboring tribe and T’Challa would prefer to keep down confusion a while longer. Especially this far out of the kingdom.

“You will tell me the instant a change comes to his health,” he tells the old woman.

She gravely nods, stoking the fire, same as she always does. “I will.”

The same exchange. The same words. The same results. T’Challa barely expects anything different now.

Which is fine with him. Familiarity simply ensures that nothing’s change, for better or worse.

M’Bali has stayed close by over the days to clean his moist face and tilts his head to empty his mouth of the accumulating saliva. She worries for the boy, tending to his needs as best as her old bones will allow. Whatever actions happened between them, Erik has earned Thandiwe’s affections. She hasn’t wandered off once since he fell ill.

“ _Iya-Iya,_ he burns like the sun,” Thandiwe quietly tells her grandmother one evening whilst watching M’Bali pour cool water in a basin. “Will he die?” her voice tampers off on a pitched hiccup and sniffles.

M’Bali quells the child’s by resting a gnarled hand across Thandiwe’s brow, sweeping the tears from her eyes. “Erik is too proud, child,” is all she says and sets to work bathing Erik’s skin to break his fever and lays the cold rag across his face. It’s all in vain of course. The flush tint can be seen coloring his skin a dark burgundy and feels like sheets of boiled metal when she presses her palms to his cheeks and chest. 

She sweeps his sodden dreads off his face and sits to the side, watching in anguish as Erik’s face contorts in restless agony. There is nothing she can do to ease his pain. The king firmly ordered he be left to heal on his own, but how can she simply let him continue this way?

Smoothing her palm over his cheek, she closes her eyes and prays to the Great Bast, and prays to her tribe’s God, the great and generous Hanuman, that Erik be atoned for his sins and given mercy.

Oh, she can’t deny having become fond of Erik in the weeks he’s been coming around. He replaces an old wound to her ailing heart that she never dreamed to be filled, not even by her granddaughter’s presence. Not a day past where she doesn’t yearn to hear her son’s voice booming from outside announcing his arrival and boasting of a successful hunt or battles as a Jabari Warrior.

In so many ways, Erik is like her dead Rama, just as brash, reckless and heedless to the dangers of the world.  He always thought that being a lofty mountain man would suffice as reason enough that he’s immune to an easy demise. How amusing fate is to prove that even a great brute like him can be taken down by the tiniest organism. . .

“ _Iya-Iya_?”

M’Bali softly looks at her grandchild through swimming eyes. The girl’s changed out of her favorite red and cream buba dress to a tattered yellow nightgown, holding a thick furred pelt to her chest. Her father’s waist belt. The sight’s enough to let the tears stream freely from M’Bali’s eyes.

“Come child, sit here.” M’Bali pats the space beside her. Thandiwe obediently creeps near, footsteps as light as the crackle of the dying fire behind them. The girl curls under her grandmother’s arm and together, they watch over Erik’s slumbering self.

 It can’t be for long though. M’Bali knows she’d have to stoke the fires soon. To combat the heat of fever, equal heat is required.

“I can stay, _Iya-Iya_? I promise to be really quiet,” she softly vows.

M’Bali thinks about telling the girl that Erik’s too far gone in his sickness to be awaken so easily, but settles with saying, “For now. You will have to go to bed soon.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be too hot for you to stay in here. I need to build the fire to break his fever.”

“I will be quiet,” Thandiwe says as though that alone would be enough. “And he won’t die?”

M’Bali’s mouth tightens. Hearing this question each day, becoming asked more then she’s comfortable with, greatly displeases her.

“He won’t,” she echoes softly. “Not now. . .” A thought crosses her mind. “I do not think the king will let it happen either.”

That is plenty good for Thandiwe who rubs at her eyes and sleepily smiles. Content with knowing he will be there tomorrow, exhaustion claims her at last and M’Bali takes her to their shared bedroom, opening the windows to let out some of the humidity and warm air.

The creak of her wooden floors is her only warning.

When she returns to the living room, King T’Challa is standing above Erik’s prone body, studying over him the way a disgruntled parent does to a spoiled child. She can only imagine what thoughts travel through his complex brain while watching his cousin’s body seize with torrents of pain.

Erik pants, head twisting into the burlap pillow, teeth clenched so tight, the grind rivals rubbing stones. His entire body arches like a tightly drawn bowstring and his shivering increases, as sweat profusely tumbles off his chest and face. The king’s face scrunches in silent scrutiny.

M’Bali quietly steps into her living room, fingers tangled in the hem of her green kaba skirt. “Is there nothing that can be done to ease his suffering?”

“It is necessary for him to survive. To live, he must endure the pain.”

“Endure?” she softly bites. “The strain alone can kill him. He is just a man.”

The look the king shoots her is unyielding and stubborn. Apparently, he has more faith in the impossible then she.

“Tell me, old woman, do you know the extent of his crimes against Wakanda?”

“I know all about his history, your highness. I know about the Golden Tribe’s long reign of heinous inequality as well,” she says. “We are not without our faults. Mighty or small, a crime is still a crime.”

Eyes like the blinding sun fix on her. M’Bali keeps her focus on Erik’s face, the deep reddening in his skin, and how his shallow breathing becomes so dangerously quiet. No matter the king’s disdain for having been reminded that his lineage isn’t the untainted bloodline he wishes it to be, Erik’s chances of living are what’s important to her. And he’s living proof of the mistakes caused by the late king.

But King T’Challa doesn’t remark on her brazen behavior, choosing to shuck off his outer robe, and lower britches until he’s clad only in a blue undershirt and tan linen pants. “Build the fire some more and prepare a meal for him; something for him to swallow.”

M’Bali openly stiffens. “He can’t eat anything. I’ve tried. Nothing can go past the swelling in his throat—”

“That’s thrice now you’ve spoken out of turn,” T’Challa’s flat tone could level a home. “I will not tolerate it again. Do as you’re told.”

M’Bali’s hands squeeze at her sides. “You are not my king. I fall under M’Baku’s protection. It is only respect out of my granddaughter’s mother I address you with the appropriate title instead of your name.”

Her tone either goes unnoticed or unheeded. T’Challa crouches by Erik’s side, fingertips grazing the side of his face. “Fine,” he murmurs soon, and eases back on his knees and lowers his head until it bumps the floor. “Please, help me.”

Eyes becoming enormous, M’Bali’s hand goes to land upon her heart. “Y-Yes,” she swallows thickly and nods. “I’ll gather the wood.” Grasping a bucket by the fire hearth, M’Bali leaves, unable to erase being begged by the mightiest ruler of all Wakanda.

A humble king? This man is nothing like his predecessors.

Erik’s will is not all that impressive.

The notion, under regular circumstances, would bring T’Challa a wrath of dissatisfaction. This is the man who has gone beyond the scope of perseverance to end his life and has brought this country to its knees just to liberate worldwide oppression. But hearing the old woman’s words, haunt him. These are not normal circumstances where T’Challa expects Erik to bounce back and be prepared to wield his swords in combat.

He is still just a man, albeit, one lying before him near death. Too strong to die, too weak to heal faster. To be felled by a common belly-crawler, T’Challa imagines his uncle would be embarrassed to have a child wasting away because of his own blunder.

No. No, how foolish. N’Jobu loved his son. Erik’s revering success to the throne, his defeating T’Challa to avenge his father’s murder, speak volumes of that devoting love. Is that what has T’Challa constantly by his side, needing to see him live so his uncle’s spirit may rest in peace knowing his child is alive and well? T’Challa has yet to discover why. It’s become a drive to ensure Erik’s life is sustained. . .

. . . He cannot die. Not until T’Challa permits it.

The older woman, M’Bali she mentions is her name while tossing more logs into the fire, has come blanketing Erik’s body in two more quilts, and leaving behind a basin of clean cool water to use.

“How are you able to be away from the throne every day,” M’Bali questions, laying a wooden bowl next to him as she takes to the opposite side. “I assumed ruling the most powerful kingdom in the world would leave little freedom.”

“Coming here isn’t without its consequences,” T’Challa says briefly, grabbing and cradling the bowl of dark colored bouillon, scenting the liquid. Spices, salts, and some evidence of thinly sliced meats for flavor. This should give Erik the energy to ward off the infection and discomfort running wild in his body.

“He cannot swallow it on his own,” M’Bali reminds.

“I know that,” T’Challa softly replies, inwardly sighing to having been reduced to acting as a caregiver for a grown man. He takes a mouthful of the warm liquid, holding it in his cheeks, then lifts Erik’s head by grasping the back of his neck, tipping his chin up, and pressing his lips to Erik’s. Under M’Bali’s fascinated gaze, he coaxes the liquid into Erik’s mouth with his tongue, using long fingers to massage his throat so the broth slips through.

It’s the most debasing, sedulous task he has ever to do, but he soon has over half of the bowl’s contents worked into Erik’s stomach.

Leaning away, T’Challa carefully lowers Erik’s head back on the pallet, blinking hazily through the waffling heat waves in the hut. M’Bali, who bore witness to the entire thing, looks on the verge of collapsing from the fire and heat, but her awe seems to have forsaken her own wellbeing in favor of this.

Which wouldn’t be too far off track. After all, how often does a commoner witness royalty performing the acts usually reserved for servants?

Feeling sweat pearl at his hairline, T’Challa uses the end of his sleeve to pat at his face and lowers to the floor to rest on his side adjacent to his cousin. 

“You must care for him.”

“He’s my responsibility,” T’Challa answers simply, lifting his eyes to meet hers shortly before returning to Erik’s expression. There are no signs of him being conscious to what happened. If or when he discovers what’d been done to help his recovery along, T’Challa doesn’t doubt Erik would make it his life’s goal to cut T’Challa’s tongue out and feed it to the ants.

M’Bali swoons dizzily, and immediately straightens. But it’s too late to hide how much the heat’s affecting her. T’Challa admires her tenacity.

“You should rest,” he offers.

M’Bali’s eyes linger on Erik’s face a moment.

“If I’m to sweat this fever out of him,” T’Challa explains on, “I need you to leave.”

“Will you be able to stand it?”

T’Challa chuckles a little. “You needn’t be concerned for me or my cousin. We’re both made of skin tougher than a rhino’s.”

The elderly woman watches them intensely, almost reluctant to follow his advice, but finally sorting out logic somewhere in her mind, climbs to her feet, bowing once.

“If you can save him, Erik will not be the only indebted to you. We, me and my granddaughter, have come to rely on him a great deal.”

T’Challa’s head slowly rises, pinning human brown eyes on her. He moistens his lips, then, “Erik will never admit he cares for anyone or anything. I wonder if he knows that you feel this way for him.”

“I think he does.” M’Bali smiles. “He just has his own way of showing it.” With that said, she quits the room, leaving T’Challa behind to his thoughts and wonders.

M’Bali doesn’t fall asleep right away. She comes back twice in the night, checking in on them and each time, she finds T’Challa steadily staring at Erik’s face, and only once did she catch the king brushing his cousin’s dreads from his face.

Hoping against hope that he would still be breathing, she comes back early in the morning and comes upon an incredible sight; something she will never forget, no matter how feeble or mind becomes in age.

T’Challa fell asleep on his side, one arm draped over Erik’s chest, with the other bent underneath his head like a pillow. And on his back, Erik’s somehow haphazardly thrust his arm over T’Challa’s hip and has his left leg tossed over T’Challa’s thighs, producing the ugliest snore in the world. This would be the most precious picture. If only she had a camera to commemorate this moment, but she’ll make do with committing this scene to memory.

There’s something to be said about the innocence of slumber. It makes M’Bali believe there is still pure goodness in the world.

Seeing the two of them as they are, her faith is renewed.

M’Bali stays a moment more then goes to her kitchen to prepare a meal fit for a gentle, stoic king and an ornery, violent prince.

 

 

 

Translations: 

**Thula=** Shut up

 **Iya-Iya=** Grandma or Grandmother

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be having brief scenes of romance developing between Shuri and a OFC on the side. I haven't seen that happen yet (probably has and I missed it), but this by no way means I'm against straight couples. I think it'll be interesting to try something different. Just thought I'd give you guys a heads up. Thanks for reading!


	5. Thankless

**Chapter 5: Thankless**

 

Erik regains consciousness in gradual pieces, as if pushing through turbid waters. In the swift bouts of color and light, he’s able to barely muster the strength to open his eyes for long but settles with brief moments of swimming lucidity.

When T’Challa’s scent drifts through his senses during one of these moments, Erik’s certain he’s close to death. What other reason would there be for his cousin to be so close? Either to watch him die or to be there to act on common sense and finally do Erik in. The idea of being incoherent and vulnerable to his enemy’s mercy stirs a wicked panic in Erik’s stomach. He’s lying on his back, completely bare and suffering from the chilling burn of his own flesh.

But there is no danger, no warding off attacks. Just a warm presence that becomes an old smell, then a familiar one, then a childish sweetness. All the scents interchanged, but the most constant, more potent of them remains that foreboding scent of rain and power and the register of the pain embracing his quivering body. This—this he can’t comprehend, and he tries to for a while before he sinks into the darkness again. 

Afterwards he awakens seconds, hours, years, decades later to warm liquid slipping through his lips—soup. Hot, welcoming, and relaxing in his belly and he finds himself able to swallow it all and searching for more. Then cool, clean water comes next, flowing in smooth through a thick funnel; a firm pressure fitting to his lips and T’Challa’s smell smothers the air until it’s difficult to tell their scents apart. It’s too hard to make sense of it for long and Erik’s back falling in the black.

So many times, Erik wakes and sleeps and drowsily thinks he’s coming to or stuck in the limbo of waking and sleeping. Throughout it all, T’Challa presence lingers.

Why, why is he still here? All Erik can understand is that by the slowest degrees his strength is returning and the hands that graze his face and brush aside his hair were too gentle and too soft to mean any harm. 

As the daybreak approaches, Erik wakes to the gentle pelts of rainfall against the roof, and the orange glow from embers crackle in the hearth. His entire body feels coated in sticky sweat. A bad taste’s spoiled in his mouth too, like the morning after upending vodka.

When he finally climbs out of his drowsiness, light touching probes at the back of his neck until he’s slowly lifted, and a wooden bowl is tipped to his lips.

The water graciously tumbles into his parch mouth and it’s blessed relief from the stifling air hanging inside the small hut. When he finishes, Erik draws in a long, painless breath and sighs it free. He’s alright, he’s alive. Small miracles, somebody in the world’s going to be pissed he lived, but shit, he’ll gladly return as someone’s nightmare.

And through the mounding surprise of _‘holy shit’_ and _‘I’ll be damned’_ his vision seems slightly elevated, cushioned by a smooth, clothed thigh.

Brown eyes becoming aware of his surroundings, they immediately swing up and into a pair of flat, mahogany eyes staring down at him. It should’ve scared him shitless to realize his head’s being cushioned by T’Challa’s leg, but his cousin looks worse for wear.  His baby curls look frizzled and sleek with sweat, he’s clothed in a thin yellow shirt and cargo shorts and his skin’s as shiny as a grease pot.

So after taking minutes to deduce his situation, his head resting in his cousin’s lap, the fact that he doesn’t look bothered by it and the sudden uneasy smiling spreading on T’Challa’s lips can only mean one thing:

“I’m in Hell, ain’t it?” he mumbles, since there’s no doubt his insanity’s been fried to a crisp and the last shreds of incredulity were fluttering in the air like butterflies. “All that killing and cheating and fucking’s finally caught up to me. . . I imagined Hell’d be something foul, but damn if my speculations weren’t spot on. . . ‘Cause the devil is one ugly ass motherfucka’—” He’s snapped out of his addled daze when the perch beneath his head moves, which brings on a new array of startling conclusions.

No, this isn’t a dream.

This is very much true blue reality.

And his head is laying on another grown ass man’s lap. 

Some stunned seconds tick by and every idea he comes up with to rationalize this shit freaks him out more and more. “What happened?”

The answer doesn’t come straight away, since T’Challa’s considered studying Erik’s expression to be more important then responding. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it and his face turns distant and stoic and, yeah, Erik can deal with his cousin looking like this. Better territory to tread. “You were poisoned saving the girl. An infection took hold and left you bedridden. This is the first time you spoke in over two weeks. You nearly. . . died. Again.”

Well, alright then. Erik moistens his bottom lip while processing these fun facts, then chuckles bitterly. “Ain’t this shit anti-climactic? Here it’s taken you two tries to defeat me and a goddamn snake did me in with one bite. Damn nature, you scary as fuck.” Memories of a burning pain, feverish dreams and a heaviness cloaking his body arises. He absently reaches over to run his fingertips over the bitten section of his bicep. It won’t scar. None of his previous wounds have.

“Erik—”

“Why the Hell are you here?” Slowly, skeptically, a frightening suspicious grows. “Did you take care of me?”

T’Challa clamps his mouth shut.

Erik’s eyes widen and he sniffs the hot air and it smells horribly like his skin’s been baked in his cousin’s musk.

“Oh God. . . oh shit. . . you. . . you son of a bitch.” Treated by his fucking enemy. T’Challa saved his life. Again. Erik’s stomach gives a violent lurch as sour saliva pooled in his mouth. Fresh sweat collects at his hairline and above his top lip. He can’t believe this.

No, what is he thinking? Of course he can believe it. This is T’Challa No-Fucking-Last-Name-King-of-Wakanda, bleeding heart extraordinaire. “This bitch saved me. Twice. I can’t believe this shit.”

Erik wipes a, shocking, trembling hand over his face and clears his face of the blur and sweat in time to see T’Challa’s hand traveling in his field of view. Erik rolls away fast, pupils dilated and manages to scramble to the wall and press his back there.

“Do not fuckin’ touch me!”

T’Challa’s eyes narrow. “You run away because I helped you, but you’ve never flinched against me in a fight? What ails you?”

Something wild visibly flashes in Erik’s wide-eyed gaze. T’Challa’s mouth gapes in mild surprise as Erik finds the strength to climb to his feet, and awkwardly stumbles out of the hut and into the chilling rainstorm.

He doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. Why does T’Challa continue to do this? Erik can’t make hide nor hair of it. Is this his way of acting like he owns Erik’s life? Like some type of sick Godly claim where Erik is only allowed to die when he says so? What type of fucked up gimmick would that be and to serve what purpose?

Staggering and losing a waging battle with his motor skills, Erik blindly trudges through the soggy grass and mud and white sheets of rain beating down on his backside. Where is that old bitch? That retarded ass child? Was she ever there? When he finds them he’s going to belt them both to a tree.

Nightmares this lucid shouldn’t exist. Did T’Challa take care of him the entire time he was down for the count. The thoughts so vile, a mortified Erik collapses to his knees and dry heaves. His body’s too stubborn to let him empty it of what little contents he has inside.

The world’s suddenly a swirling heap of dull greys, black and greens and he’s suddenly feeling gravity’s nasty tug downward. But his body’s caught by an iron strong arm curving around his chest. Erik chokes at the impact, eyes sliding to the side. “Fuckin’ Hell,” he forces through a hoarse throat, raising his head to fix T’Challa with a hateful stare, “The fuck do you want from me?” Is what he manages to say in a demanding plea, but he won’t hear the answer, as his deep brown eyes roll back and the last of his energy is used thinking of the most miserably demise for his cousin.

_“. . . . To live your life. . .”_

__

 

The next time Erik wakes, it’s to the stream of sunshine burning through his eyelids and the sensation of light tugging on his hair. His eyes groggily swirl up into a pudgy chocolate face and big doe eyes crinkled in avid delight.

“Erik!” Thandiwe _screams,_ damn near rendering him deaf, and lays all her arms and belly on his face. “You didn’t die!”

“Yet!” He gasps and moves his face to the side to suck in gulps of air. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Nope, _Iya-Iya_ told me to oil your hair. It stinks. You stink.”

“Ya top lip stinks.”

Thandiwe giggles as she folds herself back into a crossed leg seat above his head and returns to smashing clumps of his dreads between her palms. Erik leaves her to it. It isn’t like he has the energy to fight her off since sleep’s weighing him down.

“Where’s the king?” he asks some time later.

Thandiwe bumps her shoulders. “I dunno. He left the other day.”

Erik then hears a loud hack and cough and a raspberry noise above his head. It’s the fourth time he’s heard that and something in his stomach drops like an anvil when Thandiwe vigorously rubs her palms together and drags them along the length of his hair.

“Lil’ girl, what are you puttin’ in my head?”

“Water.”

“What water?” Erik massages a handful of his hair in his hand and brings his palm back to whiff and it tells him all the horror he needs to know. “You’ve been spitting in my goddamn hair? You crazy ass piece a’shit!” In his haste, all his fast-moving leaves him a dizzy wreck, but Erik swats at her anyway, shaking his fist at her retreating back as she dashes outside, giggles ringing like wind chimes. He knows he’s a real mess when he can’t even catch a child.

“Yo’ fat ass gotta eat. I’ll catch you then!” He slumps to the floor, utterly depressed.

First, he wakes to his cousin, then this crazy child’s gone and fertilized his head with her nasty ass spit.

The knowledge of both leave him in a funk for the rest of the day.

And that same foul mood carries on into the weeks. His body’s healed, regaining most of his muscle mass and toning himself to his original body weight; before his first death and before his brush with it a second time. Jogging through the jungle, using the low hanging branches and roots as a makeshift obstacle course also served for helping him obtain a knowledge of the area’s layout. He normally wouldn’t stray from the path that leads to M’Bali’s hut and the opening into the outskirts of Birnin Zana. If he’d thought to spread his wandering some more, he’d have discovered sooner that the Border Tribe’s territory flanks the nameless little village M’Bali resides in.

The gap’s a sizable strip of land about a mile wide and stretched as far as the eye can make out. Erik chose to use it as a daily exercise field to perform leisure katas, shadow boxing and sword practice and always ends the day with scaring off anybody who comes up to him asking of a favor. He misses the days where being a full fledge killer counted for something in this country. Folks don’t think twice of him these days. Some of the elders in M’Bali’s village are under the assumption that he goes around offering free manual labor, but that sure as shit isn’t the case. Hell, he barely does enough for M’Bali for it to be considered passable compensation to shack up with her.

From late at night into the brightening morning hours, Erik trained ferociously. When hours of swordplay tighten his arms, leave his whole self-feeling like solid lead, Erik makes his way into the jungle, alternating from the route to M’Bali’s and aims for the small shelter built of thick limbs and sown leaves.

The weather’s been a bitch to the shelter’s exterior. The edges of have sagged and the center’s collected a heap of water. After several half-ass attempts to fix it, he decides a few nights stay at M’Bali’s wouldn’t be too bad. He owes Thandiwe a reasonless slap across the head anyway.

Only, when he arrives, there’s heavy company outside M’Bali’s hut. In the literal sense. Erik can see three enormous men, all with broad shoulders, meaty heads and wearing white fur pelts and ominous spears. He should feel intimidated, should probably have turned and left because whatever these mofos want, it’s none of his business.

But seeing a squealing Thandiwe dangling by her dress between the pinched fingers of the biggest asshole, and M’Bali being held back with obvious force, well, Erik isn’t too sure how he feels about that, but whatever it is, it has his feet trucking forward. . .

T’Challa could smell her fragrance from within the enclosed dining hall. That still doesn’t prepare him for actually laying eyes on his mother upon coming through the doors.

“Mother, what are you doing here?” T’Challa blinks as his mother sweeps past him and unto the left end of the dining chamber table. The temptation to address her as queen still lays heavily on the tip of his tongue, but she always seems disheartened when he does since the title should be given to the one destined to rule by his side.

As usual, she looks bedazzling in a slightly emerald and bronze sheer gown with traces of silver gilts treaded in all the appropriate areas, so it doesn’t come off as offensive or uncouth. 

His mother turns around and smiles. “I can’t visit my son and king on occasion?”

“Yes, yes of course.” He follows her to retrieve her chair and she sits with impossible grace as he rounds it to settle at the head of the table. “I wasn’t expecting your return from the U.N. so quickly. I thought a holiday with the queen would suffice for a decent reprieve.”

“It was fun enough, but I longed for Wakandan’s natural scenery. Something about being confined by those stony walls and pale faces. . .” She mocks a small shudder that surprises T’Challa since it’s seldom he witnesses his mother behaving out of her usual regality.

“I wish I had known you were due back so soon. . .”

“Why is that?”

“I . . .” T’Challa wishes he’d have constructed a better explanation before opening his mouth. His own habits betray him in the worse fashion when his mother lifts her head and looks him straight in the eye.

That doesn’t stop him from trying to disarm with his boyish charm. “I’d have dressed more appropriately to suit the occasion,” he offers and winks. “And here you’re forced to see me in lesser clothes. I’m ashamed.”

His mother stares steadily at his face.

And then comes the uncomfortable scratching at the back of his neck that he’s always done when he knows she’s figured out his attempt to sway her from noticing something. She’s merciless with her ability to level him as small as an ant with that piercing chestnut glare that she keeps up during the entire time breakfast is lain out before them.

There’s more fruits, and breads provided then he originally ordered. Either the cooks got wind of his mother’s early return or they will be having more company. It’s only proven truer when the space to his left is set and a plate of steaming chai and mandazi are placed there with a goblet of Indian tea.

That’s Shuri’s favorite dish. So, she’ll be joining them then. Perhaps that is why his mother’s currently spearing him through the head with that deadly look of hers.

T’Challa lowers his gaze from hers in favor of reaching for a piece of toast. His hand’s smacked with lightning speed. He looks at her appalled.

“Your father and I taught you better,” she haughtily reprimands. “Wait until your sister arrives.”

T’Challa almost gives into the temptation to pout. “I am a hungry king—”

“I am your mother.”

The steely resolve in those four words shows just how little power he has against his mother’s will and he obediently retracts his hand, covering a small smile behind his fist.

“But I would like to know why I had to hear from the Council Elders why my son’s been gallivanting off to tend to your would-be killer like a nursemaid.”

T’Challa’s never wore the look of a guilty culprit well. A grown man shouldn’t cower so pathetically before their mother, but not every man’s been subjected to Queen Ramonda’s lethal eyes either.

“It isn’t my place to judge your decisions, but as your mother and advisor . . .,” she softly tampers off with the rest abundantly clear to interpret.

T’Challa braids his fingers together on the table’s surface. “What will you have me do? Abandon him? It’s what _Baba_ did and see what happened?”

She shakes her head. “Erik is too set in his ways to suddenly change his opinion all because you’re showing him a little kindness. Don’t set yourself up for disappointment.”

“I’m not expecting redemption.”

“Then what are you after?”

“. . . I wish I knew.”

The doors opening gratefully spare him from having to sound so jumbled. He wishes he could provide his mother with something more elaborate, but it’s an answer he’s still searching for. She’s right in the aspect of seeking Erik’s salvation being a redundant conundrum.

Erik’s reaction to learning T’Challa helped in tending to him, was, well, unexpected.

The day Erik fell in the rain, T’Challa allowed his cousin’s body to double over his forearm, then stood with him tucked under his arm and carried him back to lay back in a pile of frail body parts. During the entirety of Erik’s company, T’Challa only focused on guaranteeing Erik survival just so he can meet the fiery demand and challenge boil to life in his cousin’s eyes once more.

T’Challa witnessed a rare vulnerability in Erik’s demeanor, his mental stability. It was clear more than ever that having to be at the mercy of his father’s murderer’s son was of the lowest of low and for a moment, T’Challa fears this will bother him more than it should. All he can picture is the memory of wetness clinging to long eyelashes and the smell of salt hanging in the air.

No, T’Challa hasn’t found his answer yet. . . No telling when he will anytime soon.

The urge to sigh nearly gets the better of him, but T’Challa notices his sister near with an air of tense indifference and suppresses the need.

“. . . his mind’s probably miles away on a certain killer.”

“Shuri!”

“Good morning, Mother.”

T’Challa catches the tail-end of the exchange, but it’s plenty reason to glower at his siter through thinning eyes and a thinning mouth.

Shuri tilts her head at a disdainfully, chill angle. “Your majesty.” She takes a dramatic bow at the waist. “Do I have permission to partake in this lovely meal with you and our mother?”

Two can play at that. “You’re permitted.” She jerks the chair back and sits. “And while you’re here, a full report on the mining expeditions is needed since you missed the due date—”

“I wonder why that is.”

“Tinkering away with mediocre knick knacks?”

That barb strikes home, causing Shuri to surge straight to her feet. “Mediocre?!”

T’Challa smirks. “Simple?” He reaches out to pluck a sausage off a plate.

Shuri pops it out of his hand. Their mother’s strangled gasps ought to have given the siblings pause, but the tension’s mounted too high for too long during her absence. And Shuri looks like she’s reached the point of echoing every shred of just how she feels about her brother’s recent behavior. T’Challa’s on the verge of doing the same.

Being a big brother to a sister he couldn’t hate even if she’d been the killer Erik is today, puts a huge stopper on that.

Shuri turns a brilliant red, mouth wound as tight as a zipper.

Their mother looks worriedly between them. “Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing.” The pair reflect, soft and stern, never breaking eye contact. At least they’re on the same page when it comes to deflecting their mother’s involvement. Not that there’s a chance she’ll buy it after seeing the tension for herself.

The thrumming on T’Challa’s wrist is the only reason he breaks their stare down first and lifts his Kimoyo Beads to eye level.

W’Kabi’s face fabricates in a silicone of colors. “My king, my queen, my princess,” he greets in turn, before focusing on T’Challa’s face. “I’ve very important news.”

“What is it?”

“Some of my men spotted M’Baku and two of his tribesmen entering the Eastern Border.”

That’s. . . odd. M’Baku, though roguish and stubborn, isn’t the type to enter a domain without prior notice. “What does he want?”

“I went to investigate for myself and . . . well—”

“Well?”

“Have a look for yourself.” The images become gritty, reshaping in a spasm of distorted dark and light hues until the scene of rapidity morphs into a sight that drags a feeling of drain in T’Challa’s belly like a stone.

Erik’s engaging M’Baku in hand to hand combat and from the look of rage in their eyes, neither one seems likely to reach an agreement anytime soon. T’Challa waves his palm over the image and expands it to gain a better view.

Erik’s being swarmed by M’Baku and two equally large men, striking them with the grace and frightening ease expected of him. . . Until one of them lands a hard strike to the back of Erik’s head and he falls on the ground.

And he isn’t moving.

T’Challa will never know a time in his life when he ran so quickly.

 


	6. Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don't say it often enough, I do appreciate everyone who reads this story. Those of you who take the spare time out of your busy lives to leave comments, you're wonderful. Same to those of you who leave kudos and bookmark this story. You all are the most amazing folks there are out there. Thank you so very much. Please enjoy the next chapter and excuse any possible mistakes.

**Chapter 6: Compromise**

Dizzily squinting through thinning eyelids, the world began to fade to a lackluster twist of green and a brown so dusky it looks black. Erik thinks of it like a bowl being capped by another one, the way the darkness creep in steadying sheets around his eyes. His dept perception is all obscured, and the distant feminine screams were reaching him as though through an underwater tunnel.

There’s something bearing down on him, half-heavy, half-tight. The hold’s effective; similar to the old-style Ezekiel choke, and he pictures the enemy being so worried about his counter that after striking Erik behind the head like a pussy, has to place him in this weak ass chokehold to make sure he stays down. Erik isn’t sure how accustom these fools are to using these mundane methods. He doubts they’re caught up to the recent countermeasures used to break free of these.

The grip’s impressive. The big man keeping him anchored down has an arm like a chunky iron. But there’s flaws all through this, and with the skinny strip of air slipping into Erik’s lungs is miniscule, he uses it to his advantage.

There’s a reason why he abandoned learning how to properly use the Ezekiel since it’s all about fighting through it.

This guy has it all wrong.

It’s easy for the choke to move from being a blood hold to a windpipe choke, and the chopping motion often requires the use of one’s significant strength. And it requires for you to be partially on your opponent’s back. Which means, they can’t see everything you’re up to if their focus is entirely concentrated on restricting your oxygen.

Erik shifts just an inch and presses his weighed hand into the ground. It isn’t easy. Whoever’s on him is a solid three hundred or more bucks. But Erik manages it in between concentrating on cycling his air supply and startling his opponent with a sharp jab with his heel into their thigh and at the slightest loosening, Erik rebels.

He doesn’t have enough momentum to propel himself in a perfect arch and he doesn’t have the body mass to tilt the fool off his axis, but Erik does get the arm around his neck to widen so his head slips free and he crawls to the side and rolls up to his feet, unsheathing a shank from within his waistband.

Erik sucks in air for as long as he can while the big brute comes barreling at him at a blind charge.

The scent of old dirt, hot sweat and snow assaults his nostrils and the most disgusting smell Erik can think of. As if their bodies aren’t used to the sun and it bakes into spoilage. Erik hunkers low, keeping the blade’s hilt pressed into his pelvis and runs up to the big man like it’s a javelin. Coming up a couple of feet before they collide, Erik dashes around his flank, looking for a place where the man’s guard falters.

The big man whirls around to face him, fists lunging like rockets at empty air pockets where Erik should have been, but he isn’t.

Erik takes the extended arm and uses it to hurl himself under and up onto the big man’s shoulders. With blade in hand, Erik succeeds in only driving the blade halfway into the other’s jugular and leaps away when a large hand comes swatting at his head. There’s nothing remotely natural about him having to use so much strength just to jam a goddamn shank through another human being’s flesh. That momentary lapse of attacking wasn’t any different from trying to pierce layers of thick rubber.

The skin’s tough. . .

Yet, there’s still blood spilling forth in oblong trickles. . .

Bright red, and loud; a monstrous contrast to the large man’s mahogany flushed skin.

A sound like far off drums begin to throb in Erik’s ear and he tries best to block out the sound. It gradually builds, becoming the only noise around him and he suddenly can’t remember why he ever started fighting to begin with. The sight of blood, thinking of how it rushes through healthy, pumping veins. . .  There’s something almost surreal and eerie with his attention to detail on that specific sight.

His hand’s coming up and reaching out towards it and his legs take a fawn’s stagger—

Then all at once, another scent reveals itself in rapidity and it jogs his senses back on track. Erik bristles a little before he can stop himself. The onslaught of a power and a wild bloodthirst is approaching at an inhuman speed.

Then T’Challa bursts through the forestry in all his gleaming panther habit glory.

He hurtles into midair, limbs flailing in acrobatic grace and murderous purpose from the opposite side of Erik and over his head and in the direction Erik’s facing his opponents, roaring at the top of his lungs. It resounds like a big cat’s barrage, furious and deadly. Two of the big men flatten themselves to the ground in seconds. The biggest one, holding Thandiwe between his fingers stands firm, lips tightened around the corners.

Two seconds is all T’Challa needs. He lands in front of Erik and crouches to a one hand, two leg poise, the other draw back with silvery claws erected and at the ready.

T’Challa is still roaring a threatening bellow. If Erik had been anyone else, he could imagine being like others, feeling petrified by how the sound pulses through your chest cavity.

Erik looks around T’Challa to M’Bali quivering, arms folded into her torso and eyes trained to the ground. Thandiwe is doing the same, but her legs are curled into her chest and she hides her face there as well from being held aloft by the biggest man’s hand. The other two brutes soon come up to their knees, but keep their eyes averted.

Without warning, the largest man rears his head back and unleashes a bottomless chorus of deep hoots and howls. T’Challa quells to it and straightens.

“M’Baku,” he speaks, muffled through the mask and bows just his head. “What an honor this is to receive you in my country unexpectedly. If I’d know you were coming, we could have gone about this meeting differently.”

The one called M’Baku unceremoniously drops Thandiwe to the ground. She doesn’t waste a second scrambling to crash into M’Bali’s legs, crying. “If I wanted you to know I was coming, I would have sent a messenger.” M’Baku’s eyes dart briefly to Erik. “This is a family matter. I don’t need the Panther King interfering in issues that don’t concern him.”

The mask dissolves away, to show T’Challa’s displeasure. “You attacked a member of the Golden Tribe within my country’s borders. I am within reason to question your intentions.”

“Oh?” M’Baku’s mighty head lobs back in deep laughter. “You still claim the whelp that snatched the throne from beneath your ass?” More robust laughter. “Has the Wakandian King taken leave of his senses? Am I to understand it’s as simple as that to earn your forgiveness?”

Erik’s mildly impressed with T’Challa’s lack of response to M’Baku’s insults. Had it been directed at him, he would’ve been raising all kinds of Unholy Hell. But it goes without saying. Their beef has nothing to do with him.

He shoves T’Challa to the side and says, “What the fuck were you tryin’ to do to the old woman and Tee-Tee?”

M’Baku’s laughter comes to abrupt halt as he gives Erik a slow once over. “Secure a leash on your yappy pup, T’Challa—”

Erik balks. “—The fuck—”

“—I won’t be responsible for his death should he speak out of turn a third time.”

“Ha, you got me royally fucked up with the bitches that sniff yo’ ass crack!”

The barb achieves its effects. M’Baku retrieves the massive club kept strapped to his back and starts at a fast stride forward. Erik’s already pulling two hand size blades from his belt loop and doing the same.

T’Challa moves to intercept Erik’s path. Erik dives under his arm and takes off at a faster pace. But T’Challa cuts him off and lays hands on his cousin’s shoulders. The blade comes sweeping up, slicing a clean line up T’Challa’s jawline, curving his cheek and past his hairline. He staggers back, fingertips grazing the blood warmly coursing down his face.

Erik blanches all several seconds, eyes swift in switching between his strike and the blood smeared over his weapon. The way he stares, he’s stuck in that same limbo as when he’d seen the blood escaping the wound he left on his enemy. The same effects happen, shudders a foreboding strangeness enveloping him as the stirring noise of a pulse fills his eardrums.

Erik beats the hilt of his shank into his forehead then continues shooting past T’Challa.

Somewhere in the time he’d gone mental, M’Baku has ceased advancing and trades calculative glances between the cousins.

“I’ll be damned,” Erik thinks he hears the oversized ape man say. “I couldn’t kill the cur if I wanted to. I’ll be dead beforehand.” He casts a lingering, knowing look with T’Challa and the panther king doesn’t hold his gaze long.

Something transpires between them that Erik only scarcely catches the tail-end of before he’s clocked across the face and sent sailing into the grass. He pushes up to his romp, cradling his cheek, shocked because when the fuck did T’Challa get in close enough to sock it to him like that?

T’Challa shoots him a glare blazing like the rays from the sun and turns to M’Baku. “What business do you have here with this woman and child?” he demands.

M’Baku’s hands lift to land on his hips. “They are the mother and daughter to one of my late warriors. I will not have them living in poverty, surviving on the outskirts of a country that could careless how their poor sustain life.”

T’Challa has the decency to look ashamed at the implications.

“So, I am here to return them to their rightful home. M’Bali is the medicine woman of my tribe. Her talents are wasted here. She knows where she belongs.”

“I cannot go,” M’Bali pipes up at last, clutching Thandiwe close to her chest. “My son doesn’t want his daughter raised on the mountains. He doesn’t want her to live a warrior’s life!”

M’Baku faces her. “That decision was never his to make nor yours. I’ve had enough of my tribesmen wandering the world without my permission. _One_ leaving is enough. I will not permit a second.”

“Shele left to escape your tyranny,” M’Bali barks, outraged. “You took her freedom. You stole her identity!”

“Who was she to make such demands from me? Asking to roam the land, to seek out the technology that robbed our people of the old ways. She is lucky all I did is strip her rank and imprison her.”

M’Bali shakes her head. “She would have come back. . .”

“Yet, she never will, will she?” M’Baku stalks towards the crouching old woman and kneels, his towering height erecting a large shadow over the small family. “She’s dead. Murdered by a white man. Wanting to be like them is what killed her.”

“You don’t care?”

M’Baku narrows his eyes. “My cousin made her choice. I’ve nothing left to honor her except to let her rest with our ancestors and to avoid the same actions occurring a second time.” M’Baku stands tall. “Which is why you two will come with me and nothing,” he angles his head around to look Erik in eyes, “will change my decision.”

But Erik’s lost track of the conversation several sentences ago. . . The chime of that name rings like a forgotten church bell in his memories. He’d only heard it spoken once, just once in his whole life, and the memory comes bubbling towards the forefront of his mind. . .

_". . . Andikwazi ukubuyela emva. Akukho nto iseleyo kum. "_

_"Uya kukubulala xa uhlala apha. Ubuncinane ukuba uWakanda- "_

_"Ndiya kubanjelwa njengoko ndilapha. Andikwazi ukusinda ikusasa lam. Ndiya kufela apha okanye apha. Ndiyazi nje into enokuyilindela xa kwenzeka apha. "_

_“Shele—”_

_"N’Jobu, andinako. Hlonipha ukhetho lwam. Bandifuna apha ngokubanzi njengokuba bakudinga. . . Ndiya kulungile. "_

_“But will what of Erik? What will you have me tell him?”_

_“. . . Nothing. He doesn’t have to ever know about me and Dala.”_

Erik jolts into reality to find T’Challa giving him a worry expression and M’Baku beginning to bend forward and start grabbing for M’Bali and Thandiwe again.

“Didn’t you hear what she said? They don’t want to go back!” Erik shouts. “Who the fuck is you to say what she can or can’t do. She’s an old ass woman. That child’s hers to take care of, not yours!”

M’Baku patiently breathes through his nose. “The girl comes from a long time of warriors. She’s blooded to become a fighter like her father, her grandfather, and predecessors onward. She will not learn those ways by living a pampered life. M’Bali has gotten too old to teach her and I will not allow this child’s talents to go to waste.”

Erik shakes his head, blinking, pressing a palm to his brow and thinks, hard, fast and very stupid.

So, fucking stupid.

“Then lemme train her.”

T’Challa looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Erik—”

“Mind your damn business,” he snarks at his cousin and keeps going. “I can fight as good as T’Challa. Better then your sorry ass lackies too. Gimme some time to show you she can learn to fight just as good here as she could anywhere else.”

M’Baku sneers. “You reek of the big, foul, dictated country across the ocean. Your ways will corrupt her and I will not have it.”

“I won’t teach her in the ways of a Navy Seal. Nothing but traditional shit, I swear. She’ll learn how to forage on her own, fight by herself and be able to survive in any terrain.” Erik drops his blades to the grass, ignoring T’Challa’s shock and holds up his hands. “Lemme have her. Gimme two months and if Tee-Tee ain’t learn shit, you can spike my head next to your throne.”

T’Challa stiffens. “He’ll do no such thing—”

“You don’t control what I do,” Erik snaps back. “You’re not my king.”

“Erik!” T’Challa grabs him by the shoulders shakes him violently. “You cannot simply interject in foreign affairs. You barely have a firm foothold in your own tribe and here you think to ensnare yourself in the case of others?”

Erik knocks his arms away, stepping up into T’Challa’s face. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, whenever I want. Don’t like it, feel free to stop me.”

“I just might.”

“Then bring it!”

Tense silence hangs in the air between them. Standing this close, nearly nose to nose, chest to chest, heaving in the scent of the other, there’s an unmistakable charge growing where the slightest spark could set them off. M’Baku’s bemused words have the opposite effect where Erik is left smirking and T’Challa is dumbfounded beyond all reason.

“I’ll accept your terms, foreign pup,” says M’Baku. He steps away from M’Bali but holds out a hand for Thandiwe. She hesitantly takes it and swings her up into his arms. “You will train the girl in the ways of a Jabari Warrior. I will give you your two months. Upon my return and she isn’t familiar with the ways of her belated ancestors, I will shear your skin and wear it as my cape on hunts.”

“Deal.”

“No!” T’Challa makes a frustrated sound. “Why would you agree to this? You don’t know anything about the Jabari customs!”

Erik shrugs a shoulder. “Guess I got my work cut out for me then.”

A series of rough cuss words flow from T’Challa’s lips in English and Wakandian. Erik cracks a smirk and nods at M’Baku. The mountain chief taps the girl’s nose and lets her down to go back to her grandmother. Looking between the two cousins again, M’Baku’s smirk becomes teasing, somewhat knowing.

“I sincerely hope you will be able to impress me, child,” he directs to Erik. “Or your king will weep buckets at your funeral.”

“Fuck you,” says Erik. “I ain’t even worried.”

“Fine, fine.” M’Baku waves his hand once and the two warriors he brought along, rise and follow him. The one with the embedded blade finally dislodges it and takes a threatening gesture towards Erik.

Erik flips the bitch off with both hands.

When the Jabari Tribe leaves, T’Challa turns bright enraged eyes at Erik. “You have no idea what you have done!”

Erik’s smirk widens. He’s never seen T’Challa so mad. It’s almost comical. “Don’t worry. I’ll still try to kill you in between lessons.”

T’Challa’s mouth flaps in wordless anger. The cut along his face seems to match his rage. It’s already becoming sealed by the healing properties from the herb. It won’t scar. Erik half wishes it would.

Unable to form a decent, logical comeback worthy of a king, T’Challa simply brushes by Erik, retaking the path that brought him here. His stride is jerky, the scent of him cloaked in rage and confusion. Erik doesn’t have time to decipher his cousin’s attitude, nor does he care.

Something occurs to Erik though. Several times he and T’Challa were behind the other’s back. . . and neither took the opportunity to deal the final strike. T’Challa, he can understand not doing something so underhanded. Himself, well, he’s either getting rusty or developing a routine where he’s cool with fighting on fair grounds.

Neither suits him.

“I do not think you realize the caliber of danger you’ve just taken upon yourself, Erik,” is what M’Bali says behind his back.

Erik’s gaze is still locked on T’Challa’s retreating back. “I don’t care. S’nothing I can’t handle. Besides,” he chuckles, “the shit was worth getting my cousin pissed. I’m gonna remember that shit until my grey days.”

M’Bali sighs. “But what could you hope to gain from this?”

The smile on Erik’s face lessens. He faces the old woman, and murmurs, “I’ve got my reasons. . . M’Baku’s got answers I need. . . I think this’ll be the fastest way to get on his good side.” He quietens, then adds with hardened eyes. “But I’m gonna start with you, old heifa. Tell me who the fuck Shele is and what in the Hell was she doin’ in America with my pops?”

  

 

**Translations:**

**_". . . Andikwazi ukubuyela emva. Akukho nto iseleyo kum. "_ ** **_=_ ** _“. . . I can never go back. There’s nothing left for me.”_

**_"Uya kukubulala xa uhlala apha. Ubuncinane ukuba uWakanda- "_ ** _= “He’ll kill you if you stay here. At least if you’re in Wakanda—”_

**_"Ndiya kubanjelwa njengoko ndilapha. Andikwazi ukusinda ikusasa lam. Ndiya kufela apha okanye apha. Ndiyazi nje into enokuyilindela xa kwenzeka apha. "_ ** **_=_ ** _“I’ll be just as restrained as I am here. I cannot escape my destiny. I’m fated to die here or there. I just know what to expect when it happens here.”_

_“Shele—”_

****

**_"N’Jobu, andinako. Hlonipha ukhetho lwam. Bandifuna apha ngokubanzi njengokuba bakudinga. . . Ndiya kulungile. "   =_ ** _“N’Jobu, I can’t. Respect my choice. They need me here as much as they need you. . . I’ll be OK.”_

_“But will what of Erik? What will you have me tell him?”_

_“. . . Nothing. He doesn’t have to ever know about me and Dala.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more!


	7. A Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, finally! Good grief. Here's the next update everyone and thank you so very much for all of your feedback and participation. You have no idea what it truly means to me. Please enjoy the story and excuse any mistakes!

**A Shift**

 

“You are needed here on your throne!” The River Tribe Elder lashes out.

“I agree,” the Mining Tribe Elder snippily chimes in. “How can the people be sure their king is all for their welfare when he’s constantly gallivanting the territories like a dog for our enemy.”

T’Challa calmly lays his cheek on the back of his knuckles. “It has been said time and time again that no matter the circumstances of what has happened, N’Jadaka has been pardoned for his crimes. Only if he enacts on future endeavors against anyone in Wakanda, shall I deal the necessary punishment. That is a task due to me and only me, as has been ordered by me. None of you will be able to deter me from this decision.”

The Merchant Elder grimly tightens her lips. “You have trained all of your life to fill your father’s shoes and here I am finding them sadly empty. He would not behave as reckless.”

“I am not my father, nor will I portray myself as such in the future.” T’Challa rises to his feet, eyeing each tribal chief until they turn from his hardened gaze. “I leave my throne to assure he isn’t running amuck about the countryside.”

The Border Elder huffs. “That can easily be remedied.”

T’Challa shoots him a glare so lethal, the older man pulls into himself and keeps his eyes to the floor.

“Unless I am left with no other options,” he loudly directs to them all, “I will not kill Prince N’Jadaka. A drop of his blood is worth more than all the Vibranium deposits in the mountain. You will all do well to remember your place. I am king, you are supposed to be my advisors, but lately you’ve done nothing more than make me lose my patience. Nagging on the same topic will not solve our country’s political warfare.”

Most of them have the decency to appear submitted. Save for one. T’Challa expects nothing less from the Merchant Tribe’s Elder. Being the oldest and most pertinacious when it comes to tradition and customs, T’Challa knows no matter how hard he tries to reason his way through why he makes the choices he’s made, she will not yield until thoroughly pacified with actions, not words.

The counsel meeting is dismissed, and he’s left to disdainfully ponder over what’s been discussed.

Same song, same verse and it’s becoming tiresome. More on their dislike with N’Jadaka’s freedom and now with his direct involvement with the Jabari rituals, he has made it abundantly clear how much of a problem he will be. The only saving grace is that T’Challa hasn’t had to fight off his cousin’s murderous attempts once since his deal with M’Baku.

T’Challa has been too caught up in his obligations with the throne to venture out to see what’s happened since. He’s lost track of the time. By now, it’s been over two weeks. T’Challa doesn’t have high hopes of Erik achieving much of anything in that brief time. But the silence troubles him. At least when he would attack, T’Challa knew what his cousin’s objectives were.

Now, his focus is channeled elsewhere. But is it really for the child’s sake? Does he have some hidden agenda?

During T’Challa’s aimless wandering down the corridor, he pauses to stare out the window overlooking the palace gardens surrounding the courtyard, the overwhelming span of it reaching as far as the metallic platform cradling the entire property the way a hand cups a plum. It is the noise of the conversation below that has him so fixated. Scores of landscapers prim at the hedges, the gardeners lightly comb at the soil to uproot the offensive weeds, and caretakers tend to the flowers.

Adjacent to it is the battered obstacle field used for the Dora Milaje to train the new recruits. T’Challa spies a squad of four standing at attention before Okoye and Ayo. From the looks of it, they’re being instructed with the elementary stances and ways to handle a staff. T’Challa smirks, remembering when he’d first met Okoye while she bore the green garb used to mark the newest recruits. She’d been the only one brave enough to take on the instructor who’d been Aloe at the time.

Nobody’s displayed the same kind of courage since.

Or perhaps he’s spoke too soon. Just as he’d been about to carry on his business, one of the recruits steps out of line and right into Okoye’s space.

“This should be interesting,” he quietly muses and goes to check out the outcome.

“I want to challenge you, General Okoye!”

Okoye’s eyebrow flies to her hairline. She hears a faint snort come from Ayo behind, but is too caught off guard by this student’s tenacity to scold her for it. “You want to challenge me,” she says, dubiously. “You understand what this entitles?”

“Yes ma’am!”

This young girl’s shown promise since her first day, but so do the others. It’s only been a month into their initial training, learning the basics of militant coordination, duties, habitual actions to perform, and learning all the rituals and canon etiquette expected of them. Only these four have lasted this long out of the twelve who were originally offered to them from the surrounding tribes.

Two from the Border Tribe.

One from the Mining Tribe.

And this girl, the only one from the River Tribe to tryout for the role as Dora Milaje.

She’s taken to all the lessons like a fish to water, ascending all expectations intellectually. Her physical capabilities haven’t been fully reviewed outside of performing basic exercises around the obstacle course. But her flexibility even has Ayo nodding approvingly. And it’s always more difficult to impress her.

“It is not yet time for you to initiate a challenge yet,” Ayo steps forward, tapping her staff. “Train your body first, learn how to fight, then and only then, will you be ready to embarrass yourself.”

“I know I cannot win,” the girl says, ignoring the snickers from her peers. “You two are the best in the kingdom. I have trained my whole life to meet your standards and I want to test my abilities with the best. No one else is worthy of my time.”

A deep chuckle resonates from behind. Okoye straightens to attention. Ayo as well. The students follow their example and bow to one knee as T’Challa steps onto the lightly grooved course in a bright yellow, sleeveless tunic and black harem pants.

“My king,” Okoye chuckles. “Are you here to judge the new crop?”

T’Challa waves his hand for them to relax. “I came to scope out the new competition. Perhaps see firsthand who will be the next general by my son or daughter’s side.”

All four students stand tall, chins high.

He laughs softly, eyes honing on the one who captured his attention in the first place. “I am intrigued by this one. She reminds me of you.”

Okoye snorts. “Don’t go pumping the child’s head with false bravado I see nothing here except sassy attitudes and undisciplined brats.”

“Not me!” The same girl foolishly pipes up, earning widening gazes from the other students.

T’Challa breaks out of character and openly laughs. “Ah yes, she is like you in so many ways, Okoye. If she does not turn out to be your prodigy, I will eat my own robes.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” growls Okoye. “Step forward, girl. You need a lesson in humility.”

“Yes ma’am!” The girl bows once, then quickly follows behind Okoye to the center of a combating ring, encircled by an embedded circle of vibranium and iron fused pillars. Her practice staff is lain to the side as she steps through the barrier, hearing its subtle hum to indicate a presence.

“This should be fun,” whispers Ayo.

T’Challa lightly elbows her. “Don’t be mean. The girl may surprise us.”

“I doubt that. She’s too cocky, too green, too—”

“Too much like Okoye?”

“Like a damn mirror. Good Bast, how does she not see it?”

Okoye shucks off the outer armor on her uniform and tosses it to the side. She steps through the barrier, tapping two of her Kimoyo Beads. The environment rumbles beneath their feet and gradually elevates off the ground, spreading wider around the edges and swiftly dematerializing the ground’s texture to a smooth, steel surface.

“This will be a simple bout of strength and skill,” Okoye announces. “The first to strike at the three vital points, wins.”

The girl pounds her fist into her palm and ducks her head low. “Yes ma’am, thank you for this opportunity.”

“Get into position.”

Ayo leans into T’Challa’s ear. “Care to wager the outcome, your highness?”

T’Challa smirks. “What did you have in mind?”

Ayo nods at the arena. “A full week of endless pampering from your personal masseuse. No interruptions.”

“Ah, I knew you had something for Tassla.”

Ayo shrugs. “She. . . intrigues me is all. I am merely curious as to what all she’s able to do with her hands.”

T’Challa chuckles heartily and bumps his fist to Ayo’s. “Deal. If the girl wins, I want you to fix me my favorite cookies.”

“Ha, you won’t be so lucky.”

“We shall see.”

The match kicks off with the young girl charging Okoye head on. It’s a brazen, bold start with a predictable result. But there’s a last-minute shift in the girl’s stance and she’s diving to the floor with bending knees and stretching arms, grappling for Okoye’s knees. The move’s anticipated and Okoye dances back three steps, keeping her right grounded and the left hiked mid-waist to sweep in a roundhouse strike. The girl dodges, rolling, tucking her feet to her stomach and drawing her arms to her sides. She has to build the momentum to crawl into a crouch and bounces up to a three-point stance.

Okoye brings the side of her hand down between the junction of the girl’s shoulder blade and collar bone, immediately following with a sharp strike to pit of her elbow when it’s lifted to cradle the ache.

“Two strikes!” Okoye calls, stepping back into position. “A third will kill you.”

“Yes ma’am!” The girl centers, reforming a stance that leaves her left flank unguarded.

She looks around the arena, noticeably targeting one of the pillars and dashes for it. Okoye sneers under her breath. All this child’s moves are amateur and sloppy. When granted a chance to subdue your opponent, never let them onto the fact. She gives chase, fist balled like a club, and just as stiff.

They reach the pillar at a mutual pace and the girl pounces on the pillar and ricochets a kick off, shooting her airborne and sends her dropping like a striking falcon. Okoye raises her fist up to counter the blow of the kick with pure strength and bucks the girl to the side. However, she isn’t onto the girl’s strategy as she assumes.

With inhuman flexibility, the foot plants flat to Okoye’s fist clutches and the other foot comes around fast. Okoye neatly sways her head to the side and grabs both of the girl’s ankles. She’s steadied midair and brought down on her back, hard.

All witnessing parties flinch in sympathy. T’Challa’s been on the receiving end of Okoye’s raw power. This child will either suffer a shattered pride or skeletal when this match is over.

The girl accepts the shock of the impact and rolls to the side, bringing her heel up and to everyone’s surprise, the hit connects to Okoye’s chin. She has one moment of confusion and pain to act on and takes it. She’s smart enough to know Okoye’s physically stronger and combatively wise, which means she cannot risk taking the general in hand-to-hand combat.

The girl crabwalks a good distance and swirls up to her feet.

Okoye’s less than a foot away when her eyes rise. Her guard drops in surprise.

 _‘Emotion based fighting skills,’_ Okoye inwardly deduces and pities. This mean the girl’s vulnerable to the vagaries of another’s feelings. That is no way to fight.

Okoye finishes it with three firm blows to the girl’s chest and a knee to her jaw. She falls to her knees and collapses in a heap, blood spilling from her lips.

Ayo loudly taps her staff to the ground. “This match is over!” She shakes her head and sighs at T’Challa. “A sucker’s bet indeed, sire. You can send her to my chambers later tonight. I’m sure to be stressed to my wits end with this sad bunch.”

“Try not to be too mean,” he advises with a pat to her shoulder and takes his leave. “I still have high hopes!”

“So do ants!”

Okoye kneels next to the girl as she comes to. “Stay down,” she softly orders. “Give yourself a minute to relax.”

The girl groans, lifting a hand to cradle her swelling jaw. “I thought,” she gurgles a mouthful of blood and spits it out, “I thought I would be a little better then I was at home. I am still struggling.”

“I do not know what you expected to happen fighting me. I am the most skilled warrior in all of Wakanda.”

“I am a disappointment to my family. I thought I could bring honor to my name if I could at least land one hit.” The young girl sniffles once and slowly lifts herself up to sit in a cross-legged seat. “I do not have any glorified fantasies of ever defeating you. I am not stupid.”

“Yet, you proved otherwise not a few seconds ago,” Okoye slowly reminds.

The girl shrugs her shoulders, eyes to the ground.

“What do you mean you are a disappointment to your family?”

She lifts her head. “I would rather not say so soon. I do not want you to pity me.”

“I will not.” Okoye lays a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I treat my students and Dora Milaje the same, regardless of their background.”

The girl shakes her head and the motion strains her jaw something fierce. Okoye helps her up to her feet and lightly shoves her to the edge. “Go wait by the entrance. I will have someone escort you to the medical wing.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Okoye brings her beads up to message Shuri that one of her warrior students is in route to her lab. Only when she thinks to type the name, she dumbly realizes she hasn’t learned any of her student’s names yet. “Child, what is your name?”

“Really, Okoye?” snaps Ayo. “It’s been a month!”

“Shut up,” she snaps back. “Girl!”

The girl turns around and says, “Jakara!”

Shuri messages back: _I am busy. Have someone else look after your wounded._

Okoye rolls her eyes: _She may have fractured her jaw._

Shuri immediately sends: **_You_** _mean that **you** may have fractured her jaw. Fine. Send me another broken patient to interrupt my train of thought. _

And here Okoye thought she had the legendary temper. She’ll have to tell her husband that she’s found her rival in Shuri.

Huddled against the sturdy truck of a tree, hidden in the branches, T’Challa used his sense of smell to guide him as close as he could without alerting Erik to his presence. The surroundings smell heavily of Erik, angry and anxious. It’s becoming so hard to tell what’s left of his humanity. T’Challa won’t knock his heightened abilities, but where does the animal separate from the human? It’s gotten to where he can feel the vibrations of creatures all around him and taste their scent in the air as if it were a slow drizzle on his tongue.

It’s been an hour and he’d half-expected Erik to have returned to this portion of the jungle since his stink fills it all over. When the second hour draws near, he settles back on his perch to wait out the rest of the day if need be.

Erik’s taken on more than he can chew, agreeing to this ridiculous bargain. What on earth does he know about Jabari customs in how they raise their warriors? There’s only so much the old woman can teach him, and he still not have the training down.

The brushes rustle below and his heart thunders when a high-pitched frightened scream rents the air. He glances below him in the direction of the hurrying smell of salty tears and fear souring his nostrils. The scream comes a second time, followed by the snap of sticks and movement rummaging through the forest foliage.

Unease twists his innards when the sweetness of a little girl has him slipping off his perch and soundlessly to the ground. It becomes clearer, the whimpering pants and small footsteps moving rapidly with the cries of pain and crushing leaves.

“Erik, please help me!”

T’Challa’s blood runs chill. Her terrified scent smears all over him. A short cry and a hard thump, then he finds the girl bursting through the brush, in a torn, stained dress and frazzled hair. Upon seeing she her cries sharpen like ice, and she starts running in his direction. Her face is scratched up and she wails in relief when he scoops her up. Thandiwe clings to his tunic, trembling the way no child has any business experiencing.

“Shh, shh, child, calm yourself. You are safe,” he whispers to her.

The bushes rustle again. T’Challa cranes his neck around to see what was chasing her. He sighs in relief when all that appears is a skinny, starved dog. The way she’d been carrying on, he’d thought it’d be something bigger. When it sees him, T’Challa stomps his foot and growls, startling the beast in the opposite direction.

Smiling he gazes down at the little girl to ask her where her grandmother and Erik were, but his smile fades. She is sobbing horrible, hands covering her eyes and shuddering. A warrior indeed. This child will not stand a chance. He peels one of her hands away and kisses her knuckles.

“Calm yourself, child. You are OK.”

“It’s gone?” she asks, stumbling over her words.

“Aye, it’s gone. I will not let anything hurt you.”

Suddenly, big shiny brown eyes are looking closely into his and he can smell the waves of relief and happiness coming his way. “My king,” she sniffs, “do you know where Erik is?”

His eyebrow twitches. Erik is the worse.

“You do not know?”

She starts to sniffle again. “N-No. I have not seen him since the dog. He let it go and it came after me.”

“. . . By the Goddess.” T’Challa sighs through venting anger. He fumbles a moment to sit the girl on his hip and smells the air in one long draw. Erik’s smell is everywhere, but T’Challa thinks he knows where the fool could be. “Well, shall we find your friend?”

She rubs at her eyes and nods.

She stinks a bit. There’s no telling when she last bathe. Her face is scratched up and her dress stained from speckles of dry blood from a scraped knee and leaves and grass were tangled all in her braids. T’Challa busied himself with tidying her as best he could, being a man so used to only caring for himself.

They walk in silence for a small time, navigating the path and entering denser forestry, the moist scent of growing greens surrounds him. The thick, lush jungle presses in from all around like a sentient blanket. This part of the jungle’s eerie serene, so much quieter then the rest of it, as if stepping into sacred grounds. Only because of some familiar markings does T’Challa know the girl’s village isn’t that far away, but it’s a considerable distance even for her.

Thandiwe has moved to sitting on his shoulders, speaking in quiet tones with random questions he doesn’t mind answering if it keeps her from being scared.

“What do you like to eat?”

“Lots of things.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“I like gold. Sometimes black depending on my mood.”

“Do you like clouds?”

“I prefer them on the hot days.”

“What do I smell like?”

“Fruit juice and flowery oils.”

“What does Erik smell like?”

“Like me at times. He has a very peculiar smell. Like rain and something else.”

From then on, the topic of discussion is Erik. She’s fascinated with everything about him from wondering what he likes to eat, what crayons he would use, how old he is and why is he always so mean. She accidentally reveals a couple of quirks about him being nervous around spiders and cats and the thought has T’Challa chuckling under his breath.

He is still chortling when they emerge from the trees and into a clearing with a massive river of clear blue water, sparkling like molten sapphire beneath direct sunlight. The grass wavers in the wind like a sea of emerald. It’s peaceful here. Erik’s scent is further downstream. T’Challa lowers the girl to the ground and taps her nose.

“You wait here,” he kindly orders with a tap to her nose. “I will bring Erik back to you.”

Thandiwe contently squats in the plush grass and gets to work destroying the long blades in handfuls. T’Challa follows the vague scent of his cousin that the wind carries down to him. It isn’t overly potent, but it’s still fresh. With some luck, he’ll be able to find him, lecture the foolish man on the importance of childcare and promptly remind him that his head is literally on the chopping block.

T’Challa feels his steps slow as his sense of Erik increases. He had told Thandiwe the truth earlier about Erik’s smell. The only resemblance he could liken his cousin’s scent to is the air before rainstorm, a wet musky body and deadly. The scent is full of power. He should curse the child for causing his thoughts to stray to foreign territories. What difference does it make what Erik smells like?

Sighing heavily, T’Challa takes stock of his surroundings, shaking off the strange thoughts after realizing he’s walked further then he’d intended. He’d left the bank of the river and moved deeper into the jungle, still parallel to the water. He’d merely followed his nose.

The sound of wet movement hit his ears first and T’Challa moved back towards the river. Finally, he’s found him. Erik is getting harder and harder to track. . . And

Well. . .

Alright then.

He blinks once, then twice.

T’Challa folds his arms and glares. “You and I need to have a word about what’s deemed suitable for training little girls,” he snarks. “And . . . and I suppose this isn’t the most appropriate time to ask how you managed to brand yourself so low on your backside.”

Erik shoots him a lethal look over his shoulder. T’Challa thinks it’s a logical question to be honest because it isn’t as though he had much time to count and study every blemish made on Erik’s body since they’ve always been at odds.

But T’Challa guesses the glare has less to do with his inquiry and more to do with T’Challa’s unyielding attention at the expanse of darkly flushed skin exposed to his eyes. He’d effectively barged out of the brush and nearly into the stream where Erik is currently pouring buckets of water on himself. The water level isn’t all that deep. It’s barely lapping at the dimpled curve of Erik’s buttocks—T’Challa brings his eyes back up to Erik’s face.

“The fuck you starin’ at?” Erik coolly asks, returning to dumping more water on his body. The rush of it shines and tumbles off his body in dozens of thick wet trails curving off his hips and following a dangerous line towards the crease. . . “You keep lookin’ at me like that, the shit’s gonna raise some uncomfortable questions.” He pauses, then adds, “I dunno how freaky y’all get in Wakanda, but we don’t play that weird shit in America.”

T’Challa snorts at that. “Given your country’s poor education, I think there’s more inbreeding going on between families then you care to admit. At least if your father slept with a cousin here, you probably wouldn’t have been born with delusional thinking.” Another sharp, dirty look is given, but no more. It’s a surprise. T’Challa thought he would have been attacked for slighting Erik’s father and mother.

T’Challa folds himself into a sit on the bank of the river and turns to face the direction he left Thandiwe in. He lazily plucks at the wet stones and pebbles biting into his ankles as he thought over what to say.

“The council spoke of you today.”

“So?” says Erik. “Those old bitties never have anything nice to say.”

T’Challa chuckles. “Aye, it’s the same as always. They want you banished or the very least dead.”

“And you said?”

“I doubt you really care.”

Erik pauses to consider it. “You’re right. I don’t.”

T’Challa frowns at the rock between his fingertips. “What possessed you to sike a rabid dog on a child?” he mutters. “The girl has zero experience with defending herself.”

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing. There’s a method to my madness.”

“If I hadn’t witnessed that truth for myself, I wouldn’t believe it.” T’Challa turns the rock over and switches it to the other hand, scowling when the sharp side pricks his finger.

A loud exasperated exhale comes from the river. “You mind not bleeding near me? Shit’s makin’ me sick.”

“When did you start disliking the smell of my blood? I thought you’d be used to it, seeing as you’re the only one who ever spills it.”

“When exactly did we start getting all chummy?” Erik sharply throws back. “Last recall I still can’t stand yo’ bitch ass.” He bends obscenely forward.

T’Challa turns all the way around to look somewhere other than the crease of Erik’s ass. “You should be kinder to me, cousin. I am on land and very close to your clothes.” A slow, devious smirk spreads over his face as he angles a glance at Erik’s backside. “And I’ve had a lot to drink today. Since there’s no tissue, your shirt will have to do.”

Erik straightens with a piece of cloth in his hand and wrings it of water. “Our ancestors didn’t have tissue when they were forced to plow the fields and hunt for food. Learn how to be innovative ‘cause if you piss on my clothes, ain’t shit on this earth gonna stop me from power-driving through your chest.”

“I am not worried,” T’Challa taunts, he said mischievously, making a show of relaxing comfortably along the bank, languorously stretching out on his side and propping his head up on one hand. "You’ve yet to kill me. What have I to fear of a washed-up American?”

Erik’s hand comes up with a rock and throws it at him.

Without missing a beat, T’Challa flips on his belly and presses into the ground, propelling himself upward to avoid the projectile. In the same motion, his tunic is discarded, and he wades one step into the water before diving head in. Erik spins in place, grinding teeth and pissed and ready to throw hands when the chance comes. Then hands are coiling around his ankles, but he’s reaching in the same second and reels T’Challa up to his feet. The two collapse in an all might splash and frantically flounder with legs and arms all over, neither knowing if they’re fighting or simply trying to gain the upper hand. The slippery rocks and moss make it impossible to gain proper footing, except Erik’s got most of this river memorized and kicked some around so he could gain a good stance.

When it’s all said and done, Erik bests his cousin with an arm curled around his waist, pinning his arms to his side and the other wrapped like a noose on his neck.

“Bastard,” sneers T’Challa and commences with the useless struggling. He’d let his guard down. Erik is still unpredictable. He doesn’t know why he let this happen. He may die, Erik may spare him, Erik may—

“Who’d you think you were fuckin’ with, cousin?” comes a faintly bemused voice said against T’Challa’s temple, warm breath breezing over his cheekbone. “Now what exactly do you think should happen now? How easy will it be to kill the King of Wakanda right here and now? Huh?” He violently wrenches his grip tighter when T’Challa thrashes against his this. This goes on for a while, until T’Challa’s worn down. He feels contempt, more at himself than Erik. He recklessly dove in without a plan, rhyme or reason. What had he been expecting to be the outcome? That’ll he’ll automatically be the victor? Now look at him, soaked to the bone, water slushing in his ears and furious.

“What are you waiting for?” T’Challa grumbles, when it becomes evident that he isn’t going to be freed or killed right away. “I’d do something right away if I were you. Being pressed against my very naked cousin is sure to raise some _very uncomfortable questions_.” As far as teases go, T’Challa thinks that’s about as far as he’ll gget before dying a miserable death.

Instead he feels a hot balmy, huff gust past his cooling face and Erik leans forward over his shoulder, just enough to get a view of his profile as he speaks. “I could let you go,” he whispers. “Something’s tellin’ me you’ll retaliate if I do. Then we’ll start this shit all over again. So, we have ourselves a very interesting dilemma, huh cousin?”

“This isn’t my fault.”

“Fuck you, you started it.”

T’Challa isn’t sure it’s wise to smirk, but he does anyway.

A shift in motion and he’s softly digging his butt into Erik’s crotch. He’d thought the move would startle Erik into answering his homophobic nature and release him.

The total opposite happens.

Erik’s muscular chest suction cups to T’Challa’s back like a wet glove from pelvis to shoulder blades in what’s probably meant as an attempt to restrain him tighter, but T’Challa’s lost all hope of trying to escape. His shock at the fact that. . . there’s a very, very prominent part of Erik digging into the crease of T’Challa’s ass and he isn’t amused by it all.  A surprised gasp pushes past his lips before he knows it’s coming.

It sounds too airy, too breathless, too damn vulnerable.

To his horror, teeth graze the back of his neck, loosening the support in his knees, and his breath is nonexistent for the span of stretched seconds. Erik’s nose pokes into his spinal cord and inhales a long, deep whiff. “You’re horny,” he softly deduces, ending in a nasty chuckle. “I knew you were into some freaky shit.”

He roughly shoves T’Challa away and resumes his bathing like nothing happened.

Just like that.

T’Challa gathers his wits about him, subtly working hard to regain his composure and his brain’s functionality, because as luck would have it, he was revealed to be not only weak, but something else that’s escaped his notice. . .

Erik wades past him, purposely bumping shoulders with him. T’Challa stays turned away until he’s sure Erik’s finished putting on his clothes, then faces him. Erik’s looking back with equal tension and confusion, but with a different emotion from T’Challa’s. Anger, is it? No. Not quiet. Frustration seems more the term.

They eventually break eye contact and Erik shoots a sigh to the side. “I could ask what you’re doing here, but it’s likely for the same reason as before, yeah? Just dropping in a spell to make sure I’m not dead?”

“And to see you,” T’Challa stupidly, blindly, shockingly provides, though he’s quick to adjust his answer, “to be sure you aren’t in over your head with training this child.” Which brings him to originally why he decided to find Erik in the first place. “And I’ll thank you to not let her be hunted by wild dogs. You should give cadence to M’Baku’s threat. He will hunt you down if you aren’t able to keep your end of the bargain.”

Erik snorts. “If I’m not scared of you, what makes you think I’m scared of him?” he crouches low to the water, studying his reflection. “I’m doin’ this shit for that brat’s sake. The old bitch too. She wanders the woods too much on her own. You saw what happened with that snake. What’d if it’d been something bigger, faster? She needs to learn the ropes of survival.”

“You’ll teach her that by letting a dog go after her?”

Erik rolls his eyes. “The damn dog doesn’t have any teeth and I plucked its claws. The worse she would’ve got is a few scratches. And her fat ass needs to run around sometimes. All she does is eat, shit and suck down juice.”

“There are better ways.”

“You’re always saying that, but never providing better alternatives. Go the fuck home and stay there. I don’t need you babysitting me.”

Erik starts to walk away. He’s the one leaving this time. No more words. No threats. It’s unsettling. Too different.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa quietly intones.  

Erik stalls by the wood line, back gone rigid from hearing his birth name. “I do want to help.”

“I wish you didn’t.” Erik’s mouth pulls in the corners as something cold churns in his belly. “Being near you isn’t what it used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Erik looks at him. “You ain’t stop to wonder why I haven’t tried to kill you lately?”

“Have you?”

Silence, then, “Yeah, too many times. No excuse makes sense to me either.”

T’Challa quickly asks, “What do you hope to gain from training the girl? What’s your purpose?”

Erik’s mouth compresses in a firm line. “I need answers.” With that said, he disappears in the brush, loudly calling out Thandiwe’s name and cursing her to the highest heavens.  

As for T’Challa. . . well, he’s left alone to mull over. . . whatever’s happening.

And whether it’s for the better or worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you need another story to pass the time with, I have one out called Wrong Number, Bruh that accidentally went from being a one-shot into a story lol. I hope to see y'all there and stay tuned for more! You're all beautiful!


	8. Slightest Stir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the long way everyone and for this chapter being so short. I haven't forgotten my stories. Writer's block, college and life in general has been overwhelmingly demanding. Hopefully folks are still reading this. Please enjoy and excuse any glaring mistakes.

**Slightest Stir**

 

 

M’Bali’s hut is truly one of the most boring places in the damn world. And he’s been telling her old ass to get that hole fixed in the roof. Does he have to do every damn thing around here?

Erik wakes up one late morning to check out the window and find her tending to her garden. Her basket’s halfway spilling over with corn, carrots and potatoes. “When ya gonna cook me breakfast, old woman?” he calls through the opening.

M’Bali flicks her wrist without a backwards glance. “You slept through most of the morning, lazy bones. Your food is on the stove.”

“It’d better be.” Erik sails from the spare room to straight to the quaint kitchen, fanning his hand to quell the stifling heat. One of the reasons he doesn’t think he can ever go back to living a primitive life is the damn blazing temperatures. “Shit,” he grouches, “it’s hotter then the devil’s nut sack.” That’s going to be another chance he acquires for this home in the future. He doesn’t care how against the idea M’Bali will be. It doesn’t make sense to needlessly survive the elements with the bare necessities if it isn’t necessary. They can stand to have an air conditioning system and a roof that isn’t supported with just straw and mud.

He finds a bowl of chopped fruit and a plate of cooled plantain fritters. He scoops two off the plate, ignoring the slight dank texture and funky aroma. They’re popped in his mouth with some of the cubed mangoes. He polishes off the meal fast, then leaves the dishes on the counter for that brat to clean up. On top of learning survival, her little fat ass is going to start pulling her weight more around the household. His father had him doing chores when he turned four. She’s plenty old enough to handle a few.

“You look rested, boy,” M’Bali comments when he comes to the entrance.

“Ain’t no surprise. I used to fall asleep standing up. Being able to lay down is a blessing.” Erik stretches his arms overhead, working the kinks from his stiff joints. He rolls his shoulders and opens his mouth to deliver a jaw breaking yawn. “Where’s the brat?”

“The king arrived this morning to speak with you. He has her.”

“Excuse me?” Erik stomps over and kicks her basket. “Why the Hell didn’t you wake me up?”

She retaliates by way of hurling two potatoes at his head.

“I am not your servant!” she snaps and shakes her head while picking up her toppled vegetables. “King T’Challa escorted Thandiwe to the forest for lessons. He thought you could use a break.”

“I don’t need his ass coming here doing me any favors!” Another object is hurled with great force at the back of his head. Erik contemplates for five solid seconds about stabbing the old woman through the heart when he hears a shrill scream of his name come from far off. “I’ll deal with you later,” he growls.

M’Bali’s wrinkled face boasts a twinkle of laughter. “I’m here when you’re ready to grant your death wish, child.”

“Fuck you and go fix me somethin’ to eat. That shit you cooked this mornin’ tastes like feet.”

“You still ate it.”

Erik promptly flips her off as he starts in the direction Thandiwe emerged from the forest line waggling something long and dark in each hand. He’d almost think they were gleaming dicks if it weren’t for the way the ends bluntly curved and the triangular fishtails.

“Look Erik!” She cheers, stopping short of crashing into his legs. “I caught them. The king showed me how. Now I can eat on my own!”

T’Challa chuckles, coming up behind her. “She did fine.” He cups a hand over her braided head with a fond smile. “You’re lucky, Erik. Thandiwe is a quick study. She will be a mighty Jabari Warrior; far ahead of her time.”

Thandiwe’s eyes roll up and up to where T’Challa’s hand nearly engulfs her whole head and she squeals. “Thank you, my king!”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Go take that to your grandma,” he orders.

“OK.” Thandiwe happily bows to her T’Challa and skips off to present her bounty to her grandmother, animating every detail of her time with the king, using exaggerated gestures with her hands.

“You have done well with her thus far, Erik,” T’Challa quietly praises. “Your methods are harsh and crude, but effective. You would make a fine instructor in Wakanda.”

Erik whips around so fast, the creak in his neck has the king wincing in sympathy. “What the Hell do you think you’re doin’?”

T’Challa cocks an eyebrow. “I am not sure what you mean.”

Erik’s nostrils flare open, outraged. “Who the fuck told you to help me teach the girl? I got this. You don’t have any business interfering!”

T’Challa has the audacity to appear confused. Erik wants to punch that look clean off his face. “I did not think me helping would make you so angry,” he murmurs or slowly. “I thought if we—”

Erik chops his hand across his throat. “Ain’t no _we_ in this thing. I never gave off the impression I wanted your help, needed it, or even asked. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“We haven’t fought one another in weeks.” T’Challa shrugs. “I’d thought we’d reached an unwritten truce. A temporary one,” T’Challa quickly adds and directs his gaze over Erik’s shoulder, “at least until the child’s managed to learn enough to impress M’Baku—”

T’Challa easily sidesteps Erik’s coming roundhouse kick and bats way the half-assed punch aimed for his chest. Both strikes were so pitifully executed, the king wonders if Erik’s fallen ill or is suffering from some subconscious self-doubt. He learns two seconds later that the hits work in Erik’s savor. T’Challa suddenly doubles over when Erik’s knee sails straight into his stomach and his right hook chips the bottom of his chin. He narrowly misses the sharp blow directed to his sternum and accepts the shock of the attack with his elbow to steady himself.

T’Challa inhales deep and holds his ground.

A glop of blood is spat in the grass and the pain blossoming in his body doesn’t hurt as much as his brain screams. Erik’s hit him harder in the past. None of these were meant to subdue him; just render him temporarily stunned. T’Challa wonders if Erik’s aware that he’s pulled his punches.

He straightens, stepping back a few feet and wipes at his jaw. T’Challa swipes a thumb over the corner of his lip where blood leaks and smirks as a reinvigorating energy surges through him. “Before I return the favor, will you do me the courtesy of telling me what I did to deserve that?”

Erik takes a guarded stance. “Where do you get off thinkin’ we’re cool with each other? The fact that you believe I’d forgive the son of my father’s murderer shows how low you think of me!”

“On the contrary,” says T’Challa. “You’ve always been my equal. If circumstances had not been what they were, you would have been a worthy challenge to the throne.”

“You sayin’ I wasn’t before?”

“Politically,” T’Challa softly corrects, then adds, “Had we been raised together, I think it would have been entertaining to see who the council found more deserving of the title of king.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“When have I ever?”

“Too many times to recollect.” Erik spins on his heel, aiming for the hut. “Go back to your throne and play king until the next time I try to kill you.”

The smile threatening to tug T’Challa’s lips becomes impossible to contain. “So you admit that you are only capable of _trying_ to kill me? What has ever happened to my dear cousin’s relentless bravado?”  

The provoking barb strikes home as if a spear had been jammed straight into Erik’s spine. He stalls with one foot likely hoovering over the ground. He turns at last, and in the second T’Challa takes to breathe and brace for a confrontation, Erik’s leg bends higher and is sharply rolling out in a wide spin that propels a sliver of silver from the end of his pants leg.

T’Challa gives the tampered metal a chance to sail by his head before confidently stealing it out of midair and flinging it back with as much precision. Erik blocks it with slap to the blade’s flat flank and straightens. He folds his arms, narrowing his eyes, mind blazing with a world of confliction and a jolt of something sickening, radiating throughout his chest and limbs.

For all the instinctual guard and boastful confidence T’Challa oozed, one deep inhale of his scent summons an unfamiliar sensation in Erik. T’Challa isn’t taking him seriously and if Erik is honest with himself, those attacks he gave were just as weak and casual. Almost as if, the strive for the hunt is losing its edge.

And the deep seated rage he knows exists for T’Challa is dwindling. Oh, he still can’t stand the sight of his cousin by any means, but. . . his presence is becoming more tolerable.

“What keeps bringing you here, T’Challa?”

The king’s taken aback by hearing his name spoken. He recovers in seconds with softening eyes. “You are still family. Our relationship may be strained, but I. . . suppose I want to see how you’re faring.”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

“I feel better seeing that for myself.”

Erik opens and closes his mouth. An air leaves his nostrils and a sense of annoyance weighs down his shoulders. He shakes his head. “You’re startin’ to make me wonder. . .”

“Yes?” T’Challa steps forward once and inclines his head. “Wonder what?”

“. . . . Nothing. Just. . . Leave here,” Erik lowly demands, not asks. “I’m sick a’ seeing your face.”

“Are you?” T’Challa calmly replies. “I do not get the sense that me leaving will really please you.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Bruh, your fuckin’ arrogance astounds me.” He sighs and takes his leave without a backwards glance. “Whatever. Do whatever the fuck you want. Just stay away from me when you’re doin’ it.”     

T’Challa rolls his eyes as well. “I will try to restrain myself,” he murmurs and watches Erik disappear in the side the hut, dragging the little girl inside by one of her pigtails.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, remembering the small exchange, inwardly trying to interpret it all, but he’s sure M’Bali’s had enough time to think over what she says next.

“You are not in as much control as you may think, King T’Challa.” She says and prims some more at her garden, the sun brightening her knowing gaze. “Erik has you, hmm, what is the word you young people say these days? Oh! Sprung.”

T’Challa snorts indignantly. “Bath salt on your tongue, old woman.”

“Just as soon as you will learn to overcome what you refuse to accept.” M’Bali struggles a bit to stand with her load and faces the king fully. “Is it so difficult to come to terms with what it is that really brings you here from your country?”

“I come to make sure Erik’s attention is solely focused on me,” T’Challa mildly defends. He upturns his chin, “It minimizes his chances of focusing on other detrimental endeavors.”

“Ah!” M’Bali laughs heartily, shaking her head. “So, is that what you define your crush as?”

For the first time in years, T’Challa feels blood warming his cheeks. “Be silent.”

M’Bali continues laughing her way into the hut, tone sweet and shrill. T’Challa takes his time returning to the kingdom, wishing the old woman’s words wouldn’t resound as much as they are in his head.

And unbeknownst to him, or rather, he would like to imagine it is just his imagination, Erik watches him leave from a hidden place and does nothing to interrupt his departure. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for the next chapter.


End file.
